


Crimson & Silver

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fight Scenes, Fluff, Greg is a Magic Investigator, Implied Torture, In case you were wondering, M/M, Magic Battles, Magic Orgasms, Minor Character Death, Mycroft is a Magic Researcher, Skipping the Friends part a bit, This is a magic murder mystery, Violence, darker themes, don‘t ask, happy end, tw: brief mention of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 07:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 44,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: The world is split into two factions: Those that have magic, and those that wish they had it. Magic users are further split into two categories: The trained Lucid Mages and the rogue Wild Mages. Wild magic is outlawed and any occurrences are investigated closely.As two lucid mages, Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade work to protect the general population from the threat that magic can bring, and from the outbursts of wild magic that pop up all over the city. They have never crossed paths. But when a member of the Diogenes Club - London's authority on lucid magic - is murdered, Mycroft's investigation leads him to Greg... and to revelations that might shake up everything he knew about this world.





	1. Chapter 1

The space surrounding Mycroft was pitch black. It wasn’t the usual darkness of night, in which you could still make out shapes, but a definite absence of light, which was so unnatural that most people descended into a state of panic not minutes after being plunged into it. Mycroft often spent long stretches of his days alone, in this artificially constructed area, where he was blind to everything. Everything but the green-ish light that flickered up in front of him, cautiously, like electricity, twisting into itself, like little tendrils reaching out and retracting.

If there had been any other source of light, Mycroft would’ve never been able to clearly observe the pattern of the light that hovered in the air in front of his eyes, and it was very important that he did. He formed a cautious sound in this throat - not a word, merely a suggestion of one. It was harsh and sounded almost like a hissing cat. The green light spiked momentarily. He repeated the sound with another pitch, then another, noting the changes in the formation, the reactions. 

As he hit the right pitch, the green light turned violet. He smiled. Finally. Those Germanic sounds were always a pain to get right. He practiced the sound a few additional times, and the light morphed from violet deeper into purple, until it disappeared completely, but Mycroft knew it had simply shifted into the ultraviolet spectrum that he couldn’t perceive without help. He moved his hand through the invisible energy, making it disappear.

With another word, the darkness around him started to fade. Only a beginner would make the mistake of having it disappear completely in an instant, thereby overexposing the eyes to the natural light and causing temporary blindness. The fade was slow, but soon his study re-appeared around him. And so did his boss, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, leisurely sipping a glowing, blue liquid from a small bottle.

“Back with us, Holmes?”

“Apologies, sir. I was… a tad absorbed,” Mycroft answered as he glanced at his pocket-watch, which showed that he had spent almost three hours in the darkness.

“I tried calling out to you, but apparently that didn’t work.”

“I filtered out all noise this time. It was a… delicate matter.”

The darkness had formed a perfect sphere around Mycroft, separating his senses from the natural world. He usually only blocked light, and in truth he hadn’t needed to remove sound as well, but he had found that the additional silence was conductive to lessen the headaches he often developed. It had the added benefit of being an implied do-not-disturb sign, as it was considered rude to remove someone from the darkness without consent.

“What brings you to my study, Sir Richard?”

“A rather serious matter. Please, take a seat.”

Mycroft tried to not be offended by the fact that Sir Richard had graciously allowed him to take a seat in his own armchair and followed the invitation. His superior took a sip of the blue liquid, and his eyes glowed in the same colour for a second. Sir Richard was skilled, but had to regularly recharge his energy through these external means. Mycroft had no such problem.

“One of our own - Doctor Said - has been found dead in his office on the fourth floor.”

“When?”

“A little over two hours ago.”

“Sir, you could’ve interrupted me,” Mycroft noted. 

The darkness didn’t block physical interaction. Sure, a hand on his shoulder would’ve surprised him, but that was temporary. Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed curiously and he took another sip of the liquid. Then Mycroft realised why.

“You’ve frozen the room?” he asked. “That’s why you need to recharge constantly?”

“Yes. I kept it as I found it, so you can do your examination. Don’t say anything. I froze it immediately after we determined his death, and it doesn’t matter if I keep it like that for ten minutes or three hours. Your research is also important.”

Mycroft thanked his boss with clear gratitude in his voice. He didn’t have to let him work in peace, but he chose to do so. And with Doctor Said dead… Mycroft never had much do to with the quiet man, who had focused his studies on how the energy was retained in the body, but he had a great respect for the man’s work. It was already 2 o’clock in the morning, but this took precedence over sleep.

“Then lead the way.”

 

The room was a mess. It looked like something had exploded, only nothing was burned. Paper, glass, wood - everything was broken, shredded, dissolved into parts. In the middle: Doctor Said, his chest pierced with what seemed like hundreds of small wooden needles. Mycroft only had to take one look to see that they hadn’t always been shaped like this. One of the decorative wooden dragons on the doctor’s cupboard was missing, and the wood matched both in grain and in volume.

“The spell has been carried out in haste - and exaggerated power. Not only the wood, but many objects surrounding it exploded in the same way,” he said after taking one step into the room.

“Does that mean the murderer might be injured themselves?”

“A good possibility, yes,” Mycroft agreed. It almost looked like volatile, wild magic. But there was no trace of that in the room. Wild magic didn’t agree with Mycroft’s nose. It had no smell that was perceivable, but he had developed what one could call a mild, allergic reaction to it. Every time he analysed wild magic, his nose would twitch and his eyes would water. It made certain things quite difficult in his research.

“You may leave and then unfreeze the room, Sir Richard. And please leave me alone until I call on you again. I need to… make sure I get everything. This doesn’t look like a normal case.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Mycroft looked back at the man and gave him a perfunctory smile, mind already busy cataloguing the details around him. “Don’t thank me. It’s what I’m here for.”

Sir Richard left the room and Mycroft could barely hear him exchange a few words with the assigned guard, before the door was closed. He breathed in deeply - and as soon as he felt the time of the room unfreeze, he uttered two guttural syllables, which turned into his own version of the spell that his superior had just undone. He needed time to comb through the details. Freezing time of objects wasn’t a very complicated spell for him. He could sustain it for hours without feeling faint. It was a fact that wasn’t known to many, else he’d be the subject of envy for so much more than he already was. Being born with an inherent talent wasn’t as great as many people made it out to be.

Mycroft shook his head. This wasn’t the time. Doctor Said lay dead at his feet, his features widened in shock, and he had a duty to unravel the mystery around the death of his colleague.

He examined the body itself first. There was nothing unusual about his clothes, and a quick examination showed that there were no other wounds but the punctures of the wooden spikes. They were narrow and long - so long that they effectively nailed his body to the floor. The angle and pattern clearly showed that the explosion that had created them, had happened a few inches away from Doctor Said’s stomach. There were also needles embedded in the ceiling, and other objects around him. None on the side where the murderous mage must’ve stood. So a forcefield on top of the explosion. There was no way a wild mage could’ve done this, then. If it had been one, he would’ve been dead on the floor as was the doctor.

The man had clutched something in his hand, but it was gone now. Only bloody cuts remained. But Mycroft wasn’t deterred. With a bit of magic help, the tiny glass shards that were still sticking in the flesh stood out like sparkling stars on the night sky. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small glass vial, into which he transferred a bit of blood and other liquids that were sticking to the doctor’s hand. The object could’ve simply exploded as the others did - a simple miscalculation in magic energy - or it could’ve been removed on purpose. Time would tell.

Mycroft conjured up the darkness again - the same spell that he had used earlier - only now it encompassed all of him and the dead body. With a word he made his eyes more sensitive to even the smallest measure of light. He knew his pupils would grow to an unnatural size, making his eyes seem completely black, but in the darkness it didn’t matter how he looked. Every single one of his household spells was cast with just a combination of short sounds, distilled down from several versions of the spell, to the absolute minimum. Mycroft had no need to speak the whole incantation, stumbling upon the right combination by accident. He knew what made the magic ring, the matter resonate. His way to cast spells looked like magic even to mages.

He proceeded to unfreeze time just for the body of Doctor Said. As the clock started moving again, the body glowed in an alarming shade of turquoise, rivers of energy moving across it. A clear sign of the magic that had been used in its vicinity. Mycroft was sure he’d find the same colours on all other exploded objects. A quick check of the doctor’s hand showed that whatever glass object he had in his grasp, hadn’t been affected by the same magic - it remained dark. So… a targeted attack, masked to look like an accident. Curious. Mycroft filed the information away and bowed over the corpse.

Within the magic, there was always a pattern. It was like a fingerprint to identify mages. Everyone molded energy differently when it passed through their body. It was unconscious. You couldn’t fake it, unless you were very, very talented. Mycroft had never tried, but he was sure he could do it, if need arose. There were few others he’d trust to perform the task. His brother, for example, if he got his act together.

With both hands Mycroft reached into the magic flow and separated parts of it from the body, so he could get as close as possible. With eyes wide, magic light reflecting in them like the milky way, he studied the pattern, turning it between his hands. He memorised the swirls, the branches, the flickering colours within the light. It was a beautiful pattern, changing, molding itself between turquoise, a shining blue and an bright violet. It contained sparkling stars of gold and a branching pattern that looked like seagrass, gently moving with the waves.

He had seen enough. With a wave, the magic dissipated. His eyes returned to normal and he closed them briefly to lessen the strain and the pain that this spell always brought him. He would definitely need something for a headache tonight. He didn’t even want to remotely think about tomorrow. Turquoise wasn’t common, so at least they could filter out most of the registered mages. But there would still be several hundred to check.

Mycroft opened his eyes again and spoke the sound to make the darkness slowly disappear. With a flick of his hand, he made time flow again for the whole room and briefly saw the exploded fragments glow in the same bright colour as the body, confirming his theory. There were remnants of Sir Richard’s yellowish-orange magic everywhere, but they were as faint and frequent as Mycroft’s own - a simple residue of the time spell. Sir Richard would be outside the room, waiting for his findings. But something was off. To reach this room, the murderer would have to have access to the Diogenes Club building. The shock on Doctor Said’s face and the proximity of the attack suggested he knew his murderer. The culprit was very likely one of their own.

But Mycroft’s job wasn’t to find out why the doctor had been killed. He simply had to match the magic pattern to determine who it was. The rest could be figured out later. Still, his brain could not stop trying to conjure up theories and connect even the flimsiest threads.

Mycroft walked around the room once, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Something could’ve been stolen, but he didn’t know the contents of the cupboards and shelves beforehand, so it was hard to tell. Many things had been dislodged or impaled by the explosions, so nothing was at its rightful place anyway. Finally he walked up to the door and opened it. As expected, Sir Richard and one of the younger guards were still waiting.

“I trust you found the pattern?”

“Yes, sir. It was quite clear.”

“Perfect. I wouldn’t know what we’d do without your talent, Mycroft.”

“Everyone could do it,” Mycroft deflected. “It’s a matter of practice.”

“Ah, but you see, nobody else does it as well as you. Come now, you must be tired. We should record the pattern as long as it’s fresh in your mind, then we can investigate further tomorrow.”

Mycroft nodded and fell into step behind his superior. From the corner of his eye he could see the guard lock the door. There was no one else around. Doctor Said had never been very popular within the Diogenes. But this utter lack of interest…? Maybe his death hadn’t been publicly announced yet. He looked ahead, at the back of Sir Richard’s head. He was very relaxed, considering that one of his best researchers had just been murdered within these sacred walls. Too relaxed?

“Sir, if I may,” Mycroft said as they were turning towards the stairs. “Everything suggests that the deed has been carried out by someone of the Club. It’s almost impossible that an outsider could’ve come in.”

“Ah, yes. I thought so too. But it would be folly to discard any option outright.”

“Of course. I merely pointed out the facts. One should check the visitor’s records, surely.”

“And one will. Don’t worry.”

“That will be important. I said almost impossible, but not completely. In fact I have reason to believe that it was someone from the outside, after all.”

Sir Richard stopped and turned. “What makes you think that?”

“There isn’t a single turquoise pattern mage as a member of the Diogenes Club right now. It’s a very rare colour. Most of us are on the red spectrum,” Mycroft said, having of course remembered the most important details of his colleagues, which related to his occupation. His own magic was of a full crimson, almost the colour of blood. He thought it suited him. Dark, dignified, not attention-seeking - completely different from that obnoxious, shining turquoise.

“If you say so it must be true. Still, we’ll check the records again. Then the search will be widened to the other registered mages in the city.”

“Very well. I shall be there to assist you.”

It wasn’t Mycroft’s job to sight the recorded patterns, but he was the quickest at it. And with someone out of their own ranks dead… he felt even more compelled to step up.

“That will be a great help. Thank you. After you now.”

Mycroft nodded at Sir Richard and stepped into the record room, where he’d recreate and record the exact properties of the magic he had just experienced. He did so with a curiously heavy heart, and could never shake off the feeling that something, somehow, was seriously wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg pushed a hand through his hair and ruffled it while he walked between the desks at the Yard, back to his own in the far corner of the room, which housed most of the inspectors. He tried not to think about the fact that his hair was already turning grey, making him look much older than his thirty-six years would suggest. Many eyes followed him, but no one spoke, as he completed his walk of shame from the office of the commissioner. It had been the third time this month, and there were still a lot of days left in June.

At least his desk was always orderly. With the low volume of solved cases, he never had much cleanup to do. The one upside of being the worst inspector of the Yard - by a large margin. It also gave him a lot of free time, because no one would associate with him outside the building, and he got invited to join the others for a pint at the pub only so very rarely. Sometimes he minded, but then he remembered why his life was what it was.

“The Zero returns,” he heard a voice behind him, and he knew exactly who it was. Zero was his nickname - which he had carried since he had the record for the longest streak of unsolved cases.

“Chapman,” Greg said before even turning around. “Here to rub it in some more?”

“You continue to amaze me. One would think you’re an actor, who only pretends to be an officer. Did you receive your training at the circus?”

“Very funny. As always,” Greg just replied, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down into the eyes of Arthur Chapman, the wiry man with blonde hair and grey eyes. “You’d make a much better actor than me, because you never miss your cue to ridicule me.”

“If you were as good at your actual job, as you are in delivering retorts, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. Look at me. I was called to the commissioner’s office too, just an hour before you, but they gave me a commendation for the trio I brought in yesterday.”

Greg groaned. “The triplets? They were just kids.”

“There were three of them, and they were highly volatile. They had to be captured, lest they hurt anyone. You know that.”

“That’s what this division is all about. Of course I know that,” Greg rebutted.

“Doesn’t feel like it. How many have you lost this month alone?”

“Five.”

“Five wild mages, who still roam the streets! Who could hurt anyone at any given moment! You’re a disgrace! I don’t know why the commissioner refuses to let you go. Get yourself a job where you can’t hurt anyone, like a baker, or a street performer. I hear they’re always looking for sweeps. It’s the only way you can actually clean the streets around here!”

Greg built himself up to his full height, staring down at the man, who missed no opportunity to lord his superiority over him. He felt his muscles tense and a storm brewing in his chest. The office surrounding them held its collective breath. Greg knew that everyone was on Chapman’s side, but most were too polite to say anything - hoped that the problem would just solve itself in time. Greg knew it wouldn’t. No matter what he did, the commissioner could chew him up and spit him out, but he would never be able to terminate his employment. But he couldn’t tell that to Chapman. Not to anyone.

So turned and reached for his jacket. “I better go see who needs their steps swept, then.”

“And good riddance,” Chapman shouted, as Greg left the room without even having stood up for himself once.

His steps automatically lead him from the building towards Trafalgar Square, and then on towards the Strand. He walked and walked and walked, channelling his furious energy into every step, hands in his pockets, hat deep in his face. People jumped out of his way immediately. He didn’t even see how fast and far he had stomped, until he realised that he had already passed Somerset House. With a groan of desperation, he turned into the small alleyways and jumped into the next best pub he could find. It was afternoon, but there were already a fair number of patrons at the bar, quenching their thirst on this warm June afternoon with some pints of bitter. Greg ordered one for himself and retreated to a quiet corner.

The triplets. He had looked for them for weeks. Chapman had found them by some freak luck, and now they were most certainly gone. No one returned from the Diogenes Club. They either resurfaced a broken husk of a human being, devoid of all magic and will to live, or they never returned at all. Everyone knew it, but no one stopped to think what their work actually meant. The public only cared about the fact that the wild mages were dealt with, quickly and efficiently. Relatives were silenced, marriage partners paid off. With every wild mage captured, one more was handed off to the slaughterhouse.

Greg noted that his glass was already empty and contemplated getting another. But there was no use in getting drunk. He still had work to do. Chapman had helped him - in a way - by providing a convenient cover for Greg to leave the Yard during the afternoon. An undignified retreat wasn’t the way he had wanted to handle it, but there you go. You had to make the most of what was given to you. And Greg intended to do just that.

He left the empty glass on the booth table and quietly slipped out the backdoor of the pub, into a small, dark courtyard. As he was satisfied that no one was watching, he took a silver pocket watch from his trousers and looked at the beautiful, inlaid surface made of mother-of-pearl, which was on the lid. It had lost a lot of its shine, barely glinting, most of it dull in the low light. The air was sticky here, and even the plants had lost their will to grow. Greg sighed. He hadn’t left quickly enough. Chapman had riled him up. Greg had learned to work with his anger, but sometimes it still bled through. Made the core of energy inside his chest burn up and rise into his fingertips. The pocket watch had still sparkled that morning. He had thought he would be able to go another day at least. Now he needed to recharge it, quickly. But first he needed to get rid of the unbalanced energy, lest it forced its way through the barrier.

With a heavy heart he kneeled down on the floor, both hands on the ground. He let the pocket watch fall from his hand, so it lay nearby, still retrievable by the silver chain wound through his fingers, but not immediately on his body anymore. It was as far as it could go.

Greg drew a large breath, despite the foul air, and exhaled slowly. His breath turned into smoke, curling into itself, slowly falling to the ground like snow. The floor grew white between his hands. With every breath, more smoke built up around him, until most of the courtyard was filled with it, like a layer of fog on the ground. Greg continued until he felt the heat in his chest diminish, and the threat of bursting was gone. He rose to his feet and watched the smoke flow gently into the ground. As it disappeared completely, Greg was standing on a bed of wild flowers, bursting out of a green lawn, which looked as lush as if it had just been in a spring rain. There was only little time to enjoy the spectacle. He had to move before anyone could catch him - and he had an appointment to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be infrequent, and chapters might not be super long. Just fyi! :)


	3. Chapter 3

The visitor’s logs were always rather large. For all the secrecy that surrounded the Diogenes Club, a huge number of people went in and out of the building. Still, everyone was meticulously recorded with name and occupation. Of course the names hadn’t been kept to serve as murder suspects, but that was precisely what they were scanned for now.

After a short night of exceedingly little sleep, Mycroft had joined the team, which was filtering the logs of the last two days. They were cooped up in the archive, where the records of all registered lucid mages in the city of London were held. For simplicity's sake, all mages had to add their colour to their signature whenever they signed an official document - which the visitor’s log was. Some people refused to do it, called it an unnecessary classification, but most mages did it without question. The Diogenes Club itself was a very selective institution, choosing its members mostly from the red spectrum, which was believed to be one of the strongest. Only gold and silver were more powerful, and those mages were so rare, only one or two emerged in a decade. Turquoise on the other hand was a mixed bag. Blue tended towards strength, green towards weakness. You could never know with them.

Mycroft could’ve used a spell to replenish his body with energy, but there was a certain component that could never be manipulated and actually required old-fashioned rest. The sofa in his office was a poor replacement for an actual bed, but it did its job in times of crisis. He sat to the side of the room, sipping a cup of tea, watching the archivists comb the shelves for the information about the three turquoise mages that had been registered in the log, and most importantly for the five, which had signed without any colour - making themselves automatically more suspicious. Had they used magic to find the records, it would’ve been done much quicker, but the room was an anti-spell-zone to prevent tampering.

In front of him on the table was a plate with some scones and jam, and the papers of two people, which had already been found. Rachel Hadlee, school teacher. She had come in to visit the magic education authority, picking up new information material for her school of non-magic users. It was vital to keep the general populace educated, so that the divide between the classes didn’t deepen. She didn’t fit the profile of the possible motives, which Mycroft had in mind. But that was only one side of the investigation. If her magic pattern matched, she was the killer. They could find out the motive later. Then there was Richard Brewer, friend of an employee in the newspaper editor’s room. He had been commissioned to produce drawings of a new fountain in a park, where the water produced shapes in the air with the help of magic infused objects built into it. He didn’t fit either.

“Here’s the last one of the turquoise mages, sir,” a young woman said and held out a sheet of paper. Mycroft put his tea cup down and reached for it. “The colourless ones were either blue or yellow. No further match.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft mumbled and the woman just nodded, then turned away. Their current archivists weren’t the most sociable of people.

Gregory Nicholas Lestrade, Inspector of the Yard. He had been tasked to deliver evidence in a recent case to their own investigative department. Spent only five minutes at the building, judging from the times recorded. He was furthest from the profile that Mycroft had built, but time would tell. The school was closest to the Diogenes Club, so Mycroft resolved to visit Ms.Hadlee first, then Inspector Lestrade at the Yard. Mr.Brewer would be trickier, seeing that he usually lived in Brighton, and had most likely returned there in the meantime. He could only hope that one of the first two was the actual culprit.

After finishing his tea, he slipped out of the Diogenes to start his examination. Usually the organisation wouldn’t let anyone go without a guard, but Mycroft was one of the strongest defensive mages they had ever boasted within their ranks, so he often went alone, if he was tasked with analysing magic patterns. The spell in Doctor Said’s office had been done with care, but the remnants hadn’t been all that strong, so he was confident that he could subdue the murderer, if they turned out to be violent. Mycroft sighed as he walked along. The weather was way too warm and he had grown quite sensitive to light in the course of his professional life. Best get this over with as fast as possible, so he could return to his research.

\--

Rachel Hadlee turned out to be more green than blue. There was no hint of violet or gold. Her pattern was spiky - none of the elegance Mycroft had seen in on the dead man’s body. He thanked her for her time and made the copy of her information dissolve into dust. A dead end. Well, there were still two more to go. He refused the offer of tea, no matter the eyes the friendly, engaging teacher made at him, and went on his way.

At the Yard they told him that Inspector Lestrade had left the building and probably wouldn’t return until the next day. Mycroft cursed his stars.

“Where did he go? I need to find him. Urgently, might I add.”

“What business could Lestrade have with the Diogenes Club? What trouble has he gotten himself into this time?” Commissioner Crawley sighed.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Mycroft replied. He was, in fact, at liberty to say whatever he wanted, but he had always harboured some ill feelings towards Crawley.

“Maybe it’ll finally be reason enough to get rid of him. Worst inspector on the force, he is,” Crawley mumbled. “He left in a hurry, after I gave him a good dressing down. Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance Mr.Holmes. Maybe search the public houses along the Strand?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said curtly and turned around. “I will.”

“If you find him, don’t bring him back. And give my best to Sir Richard, will you?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said and let the door fall close behind him.

As he walked back to the stairs, the room full of officers was deathly silent. Mycroft Holmes did not only represent the Diogenes Club, which earned him a huge amount of fearful respect, he was also known to be a short tempered, ruthless investigator. If a case couldn’t be solved by the special magic division of the Yard, it was handed over to the Diogenes, and Mycroft was usually the first one they sent out to analyse the clues. He didn’t associate with the inspectors and only ever spent as much time as barely necessary with them. The divide he had constructed between them was intentional. There was nothing worse than attempted socialising while he was working to solve a difficult case. Not that most of them were actually difficult.

In preparation for the warm day, he had cast a cooling spell over his clothes, which kept him in optimal condition. He despised sweat. It also had the effect of making him look pristine, no matter what time of day it was, where most people looked ruffled and chewed out. It was considered a vain spell - needless expenditure of magic energy, but Mycroft had such vast reserves that he could keep it up without thinking about it. His trousers and coat jacket were black that day, and his waistcoat a cool grey over a cream white shirt. Around his neck he usually wore a black cravat, and a pocket watch chain dangled from his waistcoat. He donned his top hat as he stepped out onto the street and right back into the brilliant sunshine.

Before he had spoken to the commissioner, Mycroft had briefly visited Inspector Lestrade’s desk, and had been surprised to not find a large trace of magic there. He had hoped to determine his pattern without actually having to seek the man out, but the echo that remained was too faint to recognise anything, glowing barely. Mycroft mumbled a few words under his breath, and his vision shifted into grey. Strands of magic weaved around him through the air, colourful as they went along, most of them traces of the inspectors, who worked in the building, concentrated here as they were at the Diogenes. He always felt like a dog following a scent when he attempted to track someone down like this, and the feeling irked him. But it had to be done. There were several streaks of blue and green, but only one that was faintly turquoise and sparkled slightly gold. That was it. It matched the one in his memory, even if only faint.

Gregory Nicholas Lestrade was his man.

Mycroft concentrated on the colour and followed it, hands in his pockets, strolling along like he had nowhere in particular to go. He walked towards Trafalgar Square, and then on to the Strand, like Crawley had suggested. The colours got stronger as he progressed, suggesting a closer proximity to his target. Then they dipped into a pub. Mycroft hated it when Crawley was proven right.

The pub itself was small and dark. There weren’t any other magic users in there, so the colour stood out against the uniformly dark background. It spiked near a table in the back, as if Lestrade had remained there for a while, then streaked towards a small door.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the bar asked as Mycroft walked towards that door.

He held up his hand with the signet ring of the Diogenes Club. It was a free pass, no matter where you were. The club was respected. Almost certainly feared. The barkeeper was shut up immediately and nodded at Mycroft, turned back towards the other patrons, who did their best not to look at the man, who could kill them with just one word. Mycroft didn’t care if they feared him. It got them out of his way. He was the higher authority. The Diogenes Club was the law.

Mycroft opened the door and ran immediately into the man behind it. The sudden crash made them collapse on the floor, door closing behind them. Mycroft found himself lying across another body, head on the floor, but his vision was filled with the most delicate white flowers, emerging from a lush green, smelling of nature and peace. For a second, his brain tried to make sense of this, then his instincts kicked in and he formed a sound in his throat, which made his body levitate off the floor, back to his feet. He stared down at the man, who looked equally surprised, but also somehow very scared.

He was about as tall as Mycroft himself, dressed in a very simple version of the everyday suit, which was common with the Yard. His bowler hat had fallen to the ground behind him, revealing unruly, black hair, streaked with grey. Mycroft could see the magic floating around the man, gently like seagrass, turquoise and blue with a shining violet. The air sparkled in gold. He shook his head, made his vision return to normal and found himself staring into big, brown eyes, which seemed to suck him in.

But much more importantly, the very atmosphere in the courtyard seemed to be saturated with magic energy, glowing brightly silver, visible for Mycroft even without any special tricks. It was vibrant, powerful and warm… so much it almost took his breath away.

The man looked down to Mycroft’s hand, and he could pinpoint the moment that the inspector recognised the signet ring and let his head fall back.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems to flow.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg supposed his luck had to run out at some point. That point seemed to be now. Well, he had lead a more or less successful life, had been helpful to a lot of people… His only regret was that he hadn’t spent more time to make himself happy. But there never had been any time. Later, he had told himself. Always later. Now it was later, and the future was looking dark.

The man in front of him was exactly like the stories had described him, only with that additional depth of human emotion that no descriptions could ever capture. There was no doubt in his mind that he was confronted with Mycroft Holmes of the Diogenes Club, the bloodhound of the institution. How else would he have been found? He was tall and slender, meticulously dressed, not a hair out of place, even after having run into and fallen over Greg. He had felt cold where they had briefly touched, cool and dry, like he was made of ice. His eyes were of a stormy blue, widened not in shock, but in an attempt to take in as much as possible. Greg knew his magic pattern had already been analysed - now his fate rested in the hands of this man, and the ability of his already battered barrier to conceal the truth.

But Mycroft Holmes? He supposedly saw everything. That’s why Greg had always avoided him. He had been told never to cross his path, lest his secret would be uncovered in an instant. And now it had happened. Mycroft loomed over him, stance open, hands ready for a fight. He didn’t seem like the overly athletic type, but you could never know with mages. Greg had no doubt that Mycroft could take him on - especially since Greg couldn’t use even a bit of magic to defend himself.

He heard Mycroft utter a combination of sounds that sounded almost Chinese to him, and in response the lock of the door behind him, as well as the ones on all the windows to the courtyard snapped shut. The very air quivered and stopped moving. He had constructed a cage around them in seconds. First order of protocol. Still, Greg had to fight hard to not be impressed. This quiet man could probably end his life with merely a hum and a gesture, and his eyes were cold enough that Greg believed he would.

Well, then. Unthreatening it was. Make some jokes. Be small, unassuming. Maybe he could still get out of this.

“Gregory Nicholas Lestrade. I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Doctor Andrew Said, under authority of the Diogenes Club.”

So much for that. Wait…

“Andrew is dead? What?” Greg shouted. He sat up and moved back a bit, but he didn’t dare stand up, in fear that Mycroft could see it as an act of aggression. In fact, the man seemed taken slightly aback by his reaction, but caught himself quickly. “Please tell me you’re joking. Who would kill Andrew? He’s such a gentle soul!”

“The most likely culprit is yourself, Inspector Lestrade. Your pattern has been found at the scene of the crime, connected with the magic that has been used to kill Dr. Said. I have personally examined it, and now compared your own pattern to it. They match. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what that means, seeing as this process is a part of your daily work.”

Greg flinched. Not as much as he’d like everyone to think. But his pattern used in connection with a murder? That was impossible. Not only because he hadn’t done it, but because his pattern was artificial. He stared up at Mycroft, who didn’t look less tense, but projected an aura of quiet confidence, which made it quite impossible to even imagine to get away from him. Greg swallowed. Mycroft was an attractive man. Very much his type. Trust the universe to push someone like him into his path at the absolute worst moment.

“I know what that means. Of course I do. But you have to believe me when I say that I couldn’t have done it.”

“The visitor logs show you have been at the Diogenes Club yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes. Shit. The commissioner said he’d got a call to bring in some books we found, which the club wanted to confiscate. I was asked to do it.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why wouldn’t they task a runner?”

“That’s what I said! But apparently they were too valuable to place in the hands of just anyone. And Hopkins is always glad to get rid of me,” Greg said and groaned. “I was there for like five minutes. No longer. I handed the things off, I signed, I left.”

The other seemed to mull his words over. At least he didn’t reject them outright, like so many Diogenes drones would’ve done. But it was all futile. Greg knew he wouldn’t able to get out of here alive. If he was taken in for murder, that was it. If he secret was revealed, that was also the end. He had always known it… but just a little more time would’ve been nice. Well, there was nothing to lose now, so he could always reveal himself. It would be nice to talk about it, just for once, and despite everything, despite the fear he should feel, being cornered like this, there was also something about Mycroft that made him feel safe. It was ridiculous to contemplate.

“It couldn’t have been my pattern at the scene, because I don’t have one. It’s fake,” he reached for his pocket and saw Mycroft tense for a moment, until he produced the pocket watch and held it up, dangling from the silver chain. “This projects an artificial pattern, concealing the… the wild magic in me. I couldn’t cast a spell if my life depended on it. No control. I’m sorry.”

“No. Impossible. I would’ve seen…”

Greg laughed softly. “This is a very sophisticated little object. I have to recharge it every so often, but it has helped me for years. But my luck had to run out at some point. Here, take it.”

He unhooked the round clock from the chain and threw it towards Mycroft, who caught it neatly from the air with one hand. Narrowing his eyes briefly at Greg, he turned his attention to the object. The inlaid mother-of-pearl was warm to the touch and seemed to vibrate ever so slightly. Mycroft looked at his hand and saw his own pattern change, slowly but surely from red to blue, until it was overlaid perfectly with the one he had seen on Greg. The streaks where the object had passed through the air, looked exactly like the trail that he had followed.

“Remarkable…” he whispered and turned the object around in his hands. “To infuse a mere object with such power… Who did this?”

“I won’t tell you. You can have my head, if you like, but that I won’t tell you.”

“I will track them down with or without you,” Mycroft stated, made it sound threatening, but by then Greg had already given up on his life, so this implied threat didn’t even reach him.

“Good luck with that,” he laughed and raised the chain. The pocket watch slipped form Mycroft’s hand and attached itself back to the chain. “Safety measures.”

“So this is?” Mycroft asked and gestured to the lawn, on which they were standing.

“A side-effect from purging my excess energy. I was… angry. I had to release it.”

“Wild mages don’t release controlled energy. They burst.”

“For all your intelligence, your worldview seems to be rather narrow.”

Mycroft took a step back and jumped briefly as he bumped against the wall. He eyed Greg with confusion in his gaze, looking at the lawn, then back at the man. His eyes changed colours several times, pupils dilated to an enormous size, then shrunk back. He was analysing the magic in the courtyard at record time. Greg didn’t even hear him cast any spell, just watched the effects pass over Mycroft’s face one after the other. It was a display unlike any he had ever seen. His colleagues used similar spells to comb the scene of a crime, but they took minutes to adjust their eyes to even one filter. Mycroft had collected everything he wanted to know - and more - within a few seconds.

“This is your… magic?” Mycroft finally asked.

“Yes.”

“It can’t be. It’s silver.”

“Has always been.”

Mycroft frowned. “No wild mage is silver.”

“They are, if you give them the chance.”

“This is blasphemy.”

Greg laughed and let his head fall back. “Believe what you will. Now you know I’m not the murderer, but you know my secret. What will you do?”

Mycroft shook his head. “If the silver magic belongs to you, I won’t take you to the club. But you will come with me. I can’t, in good faith, let such an opportunity go.”

“Why, Mr. Holmes, are you inviting me to your chambers?” Greg said in a teasing voice.

He expected an immediate shutdown. A curse. Violence. What he got was a visible blush on Mycroft’s cheeks and a few stuttered attempts at speaking, before Mycroft ceased talking altogether. With renewed purpose, he started humming in a low register. Greg was too intrigued to wonder what was happening, just listened to Mycroft change frequency and loudness quickly. 

And then, suddenly, the air surrounding them glowed brightly from the inside out. Mycroft had attuned himself to the frequency of his released magic and made it sing. It was one of the most beautiful displays Greg had ever seen. Dust motes in the air sparkled like stars, the remaining fog was like a blanket of light over everything, and Mycroft’s body itself seemed to be surrounded by a halo. He changed the frequency again, and the light grew dimmer, before sparking up so bright Greg had to close his eyes. Then the most wondrous feeling ran over his skin. The magic left in his chest started to sing in tune with the one in the air, attracted to the same frequency. 

Suddenly, he knew exactly what Mycroft was doing. He was testing if the magic inside his body reacted to the same stimulus as one in the ground. He wanted to tell him to stop, that he could already feel it, but then the heat inside his chest grew and an unsuspected wave of arousal washed over him. All of his nerves were alive, and his body felt like it was floating, being caressed by gentle hands all over, the sensation too much to bear, so overwhelming it cut out all his words. He felt himself fall forward, face first into the flowers, which were also glowing, moving, growing.

“Mycroft…” he managed to push out between clenched teeth. “Stop… please…”

But it was too late. He felt painfully aroused, writhing on the ground, and with one last flare up of the energy, he was coming untouched, fully clothed, at the feet of this magnificent mage, who seemed to have his whole body in the palm of his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Frequency. Pitch. Loudness. Magic energy resonates. You make it respond to cast spells. You’re a master if you can make it sing. Mycroft was the best researcher the Diogenes Club ever had within their rank, when it came to analysing and manipulating magic via the right frequencies. He could feel his way through the changes in the air and hit the right pitch in an instant.

The easiest way to see if Greg was the origin of the silver magic was to make it resonate. If both the magic in the ground and the one in his body reacted the same, they were one and the same. But as Mycroft hit the frequency that spoke back to him, he felt an odd sensation on his skin, as goosebumps formed and he suddenly felt itchy all over his body. The air around him lost a bit of the glow, as his breath hitched, but then he dove right back in, chasing the sensation.

The feeling was overwhelming. It was like his senses spread out into the air, like the fog was an extension of his body. He felt the unfamiliar energy mingle with his own, twisting onto itself, crackling in the air around him. It felt strange and new - and immensely pleasurable. Every breath filled him with an unexpected feeling of joy and contentedness, in a way he had never felt before. He realised he had long stopped humming, but his very cells had picked up on the frequency, vibrated in tune and made the silver magic react in turn. He closed his eyes and relished in the feeling, which felt like he was underwater, submerged in this magic, which welcomed him with open arms--

“Mycroft…”

His name, whispered in agony, pulled him back from the mesmerised state he had entered, eyes flying open, looking around confused for a few seconds, trying to find his bearings. The plants in the courtyard had grown tremendously, filling up the space like a wild forest, walls almost invisible, the light from the sky blocked out through large leaves and thick branches. In the middle of it all lay Gregory Lestrade, face down, writhing on the ground as if in pain, but the strangled moans suggested an entirely different kind of sensation.

Mycroft reached out to him, but as his hand got closer, he felt a flash of the arousal Greg was experiencing, which made him groan, stumble back. Then Greg cried out and strained away from the floor, shouting and cursing. The sensation hit Mycroft like in a feedback loop, and with a sudden shock he realised what had just happened. With a word he willed his own body to cut itself off from the magic, and in an instant the whole courtyard plunged into darkness.

Greg’s body was the only thing still glowing softly, like a cautious firefly, like an ember about to fade away. Mycroft fell to his knees next to the man and felt his pulse. He was still alive, breathing shallowly. He let out a sigh of relief and turned Greg over on his back. Mycroft willed his eyes to perceive the pattern more clearly, even though it hurt. He had cast too much today, even for him. The projected pattern of the pocket watch relic was completely gone now, replaced by a one that looked almost like the mother-of-pearl that was inlaid in its lid. Greg was surrounded by a silver shimmer that looked like the elegant smoke of a cigar, curling around him, shining from the inside out. As it turned on itself, it sparkled like the stars and glowed with hints of all the colours of the rainbow.

Mycroft had never seen anything quite as beautiful. And he knew he needed to have it. To have him. This mystery man. A wild mage with a silver pattern. It was impossible, yet here it existed.

\---

Greg woke with a start. His first instinct was to run, but every muscle in his body hurt, as if he had run for miles with a a considerable weight on his shoulders. His head was splitting itself. He could barely lift an arm to push his fringe out of his face, rubbed his eyes, which were dry and itchy. There was absolutely no strength left in his body. That had only happened once, in the beginning, when he hadn’t been able to control his energy yet, and had expelled it all in one burst, like wild mages were prone to do. What had triggered it now? Why wasn’t he dead? And where the hell was he anyway?

He looked around cautiously. It seemed that someone had placed him in a soft bed with one too many blankets on top. Greg felt a bit squished by the weight, but the warmth was comfortable, seeping into his bones, which felt cold and drained. The room he found himself in was small, but clean and well furnished. He could see a dresser on the other side of the room, and a low table with a wash basin and a mirror. To his right was a window, through which the sun shone, though the glass was milky. The curtains were thick and of a velvety red. The room was nice, but impersonal. A guest room then.

Greg tried to sit up, and wasn’t proud when it took him a few minutes to do so, back against the headboard. His body felt as weak as if he was running a high fever. He sighed and put his head in both hands. What had happened? Where was he? But most importantly… who had undressed him and bandaged the cuts on his arms and hands? Had something happened during a case? Had the Irregulars found him? They had to. Otherwise he wouldn’t be alive anymore. Was this a safe house he had never been brought to before?

A noise at the door cut Greg’s deliberations short. Someone with some answers, hopefully. But as the door opened and revealed the form of Mycroft Holmes, all the memories of the previous day rushed into Greg’s head like a storm flood and made him almost fall back into the bed.

“You…” he said, but descended into a coughing fit immediately. His throat was parched.

“Yes. Me,” Mycroft mused. “Good morning, Inspector Lestrade. Or should I say good day? It is four in the afternoon, after all.”

“How long?” Greg asked, as he reached for the glass of water Mycroft had offered him and drank it all.

“A little over a day. Hmm. You drank that without even checking it.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would’ve handed me over to the Diogenes Club.”

A strange expression flickered over Mycroft’s face, as if Greg’s words disgusted him. Curious.

“As I see it you haven’t committed any serious crime, except concealing your true identity. But you couldn’t have kept a job as stressful and visible if you didn’t have a certain level of control over your magic, so I think that needs to be evaluated before it is prosecuted.”

Greg was temporarily dumbfounded. He stared at Mycroft, blinking a few times. “You say you’re not handing me over?”

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and looked intently into Greg’s eyes. Despite everything, Greg felt his ears grow red. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened the day before. How could he? Mycroft was still impeccably dressed, only he had forgone any suit jacket and was present only in shirtsleeves and dark grey waistcoat, a black, silken cravat around his neck. And in daylight he was even more handsome, with his dark hair falling in gentle waves on his head and the blue eyes with the piercing stare. Greg felt himself move back involuntarily, but he couldn’t go anywhere.

“Curious,” Mycroft mumbled and then hummed a sound deep in his throat, which made the room around them fade to black, and then into a complete darkness. Greg had heard of the spell, but never experienced it himself, so instead of annoyance, he felt a curious anxiety. With another hum, the darkness lit up around his body and a silver smoke appeared, not unlike the one he had expelled from his mouth in the courtyard. But it looked much more stable, settled almost. It was glittering and shining, so much he felt himself mesmerised. 

Then Mycroft reached out and grabbed his hand, so that their palms were touching. Where the man had felt like ice on the previous day, he now was warm and inviting. The skin between their palms started to grow hot and tingly. He could see strands of dark red energy, which looked like threads spinning itself through the air, mingle with the silver smoke, as if they were floating in it. With a start he realised that the red magic was Mycroft’s and he looked up to see his face, but it lay in shadow. Swallowing his nervousness, he squeezed Mycroft’s hand, which made the combined magic flare up momentarily. He heard the smallest gasp in the darkness, then his hand was released and the black around them slowly faded to reveal the room again.

“No, I’m not handing you over. I’m a researcher. The best one in the land. And you’re the most interesting thing to study that I have ever come across.”

“I’m a test subject?” Greg exclaimed. “That’s--”

“An easy decision for you to make. Either you willingly participate, or I will reveal your secret to the authorities. I don’t particularly want to force you, but if I must…”

In an instant all the warmth that Greg had felt towards the other was drained from his body, leaving only cold realisation. He was still Mycroft Holmes, ruthless bloodhound of the Diogenes Club. The man, who sniffed out even the most hidden of their kind and thereby put their fate into the hands of people, who wanted to see wild mages like Greg dead. He had only taken him in and patched him up to preserve his research opportunity.

“You’re a despicable man,” Greg spat.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that, and I believe it won’t be the last,” Mycroft said and stood up, retreating towards the door. “I’ll bring you some food later. You’ll need your strength. Before you contemplate anything: The room is enclosed by a barrier. I’ve also taken the liberty of removing the relic from your body, so don’t even think of leaving.”

“So I’m a prisoner now?”

“Of sorts. On the other hand this might be the safest place for you right now. Someone has framed your for a murder that will have the perpetrator sentenced to death, and as long as the real killer hasn’t been found, you’re the most likely suspect, artificial pattern or not.”

Greg swallowed. “So Andrew is really…?”

“Yes. Dr. Said is dead,” Mycroft said and frowned, as if he wanted to ask a further question, but then he turned towards the door. “I will see you later.”

Greg wanted to respond, but then he fell back into the sheets like someone had forced him to go to sleep. His last thought was a curse towards Mycroft Holmes for manipulating his body like this. Apparently a high status in the Diogenes Club made you feel like you could break all the rules.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft leaned with his back against the door after he closed it and let out a weary sigh. A kidnapper. That was a first for him. He wasn’t at all sure how to proceed here, and Greg seemed like an intelligent man, who would be hard to fool. The fact about the manhunt hadn’t been fake at all, though. After bringing Greg to his house the day before, he had proceeded to buy tickets to Brighton, with a return that night. If anyone asked, he had pursued the third lead directly after Rachel Hadlee. Only the had he tried to find and lost Greg.

For a moment he considered telling that he simply hadn’t found the man, but that in itself would’ve been suspicious. Mycroft Holmes was the one they sent when all and everyone else failed. He found everyone. So he had reported the trail, which effectively ended at the courtyard behind the pub. Cleaning the area of all silver magic influences to hide this development was pointless. One could never remove all traces, and Mycroft was adept at finding even the smallest. There was also the fact that silver magic played into his hands quite nicely. It gave a mysterious reason for Greg’s pattern suddenly disappearing, because there was only one silver mage registered in London at the time, and he was old - his pattern was like a clear crystal and didn’t fit at all. As long as they had him search for that elusive silver, Greg was more or less safe.

There was, however, a problem bigger than this. If Greg had been framed, there must’ve been a reason. It takes a lot of skill and preparation to copy a pattern as perfectly, and no one would go as far to frame someone, who was not important. Mycroft could only assume that whoever framed Greg didn’t know he was a wild mage, and considered the fake pattern to be his actual one. Why not just expose his status otherwise? It seemed so much simpler…

And then there was the matter of Dr. Said. It seemed strange that he would be murdered to frame a lowly inspector. So had Greg served just as a convenient scapegoat, or had someone decided to kill two birds with one stone and let one murder solve two of their problems at once? It seemed like the most likely solution.

To solve this matter, Mycroft needed to know two things: Why Dr. Said was murdered and why someone would want to get rid of Greg - if he was indeed such a bad policeman, he wouldn’t be a threat, would he? Mycroft sighed. As much as he wanted to solve this on his own, he needed Greg’s cooperation. Well, the man would now sleep for about three hours, while his wounds would mend themselves. The spell was too painful to experience it awake. Mycroft turned towards the research lab in the attic of his townhouse, where he had stored the fragments of whatever Dr. Said had clutched in his hand when he died. Maybe this would lead somewhere.

\--

Greg was already tired of waking in strange bedrooms that weren’t his own. The sun was low as he came to a second time. Damn that Mycroft and his-- Greg paused. Something was different. The pressure on his chest was gone and the ache in his muscles had disappeared. There was a faint echo of the fatigue he had experienced, but it was more like a memory than a sensation. He got up from the bed and walked a few steps. To his surprise he felt perfectly fine.

A mending spell, then. Damn that man. Not that Greg wasn’t grateful, but it would’ve been nice to have an advance warning. He got the feeling that Mycroft wasn’t used to working with other people and asking permission… or showing any basic indication of human decency. For a moment he wondered why Mycroft had turned out like he had, but then he shook his head. There were more important things to contemplate. First and foremost: How to get out of the room.

Greg figured that he was in Mycroft’s private residence, if he was being hidden. Or maybe in another house belonging to the man, if he was paranoid. The thought of that self-assured, ruthless man being paranoid made Greg actually feel afraid himself. Mycroft was effectively hiding Greg from the Diogenes Club - with all the implications that carried. He didn’t think that Mycroft’s life would be in danger, but it wouldn’t be pleasant for him, would he be found out. And with the Diogenes… well, you never know. Maybe they didn’t shy away from permanently removing threats from their own ranks, as well.

The room was as escape-proof as Mycroft had made it sound. The windows admitted light, but didn’t enable Greg to look outside. The glass and the walls resisted any attempt at destruction. The door handle didn’t even turn. Greg groaned as he sat back down on the bed. What were his options? Not many at the moment. Mycroft made it sound like he’d try to find the one who framed Greg, but even if he did… would he remain a research specimen? And if he was released Mycroft would always be able to blackmail him.

That was it. His life was done for. If he could only get rid of Mycroft without implicating himself, he’d get out of this alive. There were no other options. Greg fell back onto the bed and stared at the paneled ceiling. A life in captivity or a life in constant anxiety? Well, he had been doing the latter already, so it might be the better option. It all rested on Mycroft’s goodwill.

Mycroft Holmes. What a strange man. He was definitely the capable mage everyone had told him about. The way he cast spells seemed almost supernatural. Never had Greg seen anyone manipulate the magic energy with such ease and efficiency. Why wasn’t Mycroft out in the field? He could lead his own army. Greg had a feeling there was more to the man than met the eye. Still, no matter what it was, he couldn’t lose sight of his goal, even if it seemed unreachable at the moment. If Mycroft could overpower even the most skilled of mages, how would he - a powerless wild mage - even begin?

\--

It took Mycroft a while to analyse the components of the substance he had collected from Dr. Said’s hand. It had definitely been a glass vessel, which had been crushed between his fingers, rather than explode on the attack. The liquid it had contained was a mixture of different herbs, enhanced by relic magic - infusing the ingredients with stronger properties. A curious thing to have in hand, especially considering that Dr. Said specialised in magical cures without the use of additional remedies, only through magic energy manipulation. Had he branched out in secret? Had someone else given the glass container to him, only for him to crush it? If yes, the attack could’ve been done during a fight, not premeditated. But there was the matter of Greg’s implication. This had been planned. But how? And why?

Mycroft sighed. He knew he had to work with Greg on this one. Maybe they had gotten off on the wrong foot. But then again, Mycroft never had anyone over in his house - ever - and was still nervous about… everything. It was easy to show himself as he did on his missions. It was always a business transaction for him - no feelings involved. But this… this was different. This was something he had decided for himself. Mycroft was acutely aware that outside of his research, he had never decided anything for himself, as long as he could remember. All things were decided for him. And that had suited him just fine… until now.

What could he lose if he was himself, and not the icy persona that he adopted to make others leave him alone? In the end, very little. The one with everything to lose was Greg. With that thought in his heart, Mycroft tidied up his desk and had a look at the clock. Greg should’ve been awake by now.

\--

With a knock at the door it opened and Mycroft appeared again. The door handle turned for him, as if it was natural, as if there was no barrier. Greg had grabbed a few garments from the closet and dressed himself in comfortable, dark trousers and a shirt, which hung loosely over his shoulders, and wasn’t tucked in. He figured that he would spend quite a while in the room yet, and so there was no need to keep up appearances.

Mycroft placed a tray with a bowl of soup and some bread on a small table near the dresser without comment, and then turned towards Greg with an unreadable expression on his face. He seemed almost nervous to him. A marked change to his earlier demeanour.

“Thank you for the… mending spell,” Greg said, after they had stared at each other for a while.

Mycroft nodded.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll overpower you, now that I can move again?”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “You’re welcome to try. But even if you managed to kill me, a relic will keep the spell active for at least two months, by which you will have died of hunger.”

“And I should just believe you?”

“Do you have another choice?”

This was what it boiled down to, in everything. Greg didn’t have another choice. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t let his displeasure known.

“A bit of a hint before you knocked me out would’ve been nice. You don’t exactly keep to the guidelines when practicing magic on another person, do you?”

Mycroft actually blushed a bit. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t usually do that.”

“What? Kidnap someone and force them to perform like you want?”

“No. Work with people. At all.”

Greg frowned. “You don’t?”

It took a few seconds, during which Mycroft visibly debated with himself. Nothing of the cool calculation was visible on his features, only deliberation and a touch of anxiety. Finally, Mycroft sighed and leaned against the wall next to the door, crossed his arms.

“For the sake of your cooperation…” he said, and it already sounded guarded. “I work on lucid magic research at the Diogenes Club. I have done so since I was fifteen. They let me work on whatever I want, provided I share my findings with the club. In return I carry out any mission they give me. I refuse to move into the field, unless it’s absolutely necessary, but it does require me to go out one or two times a month.”

“Mission you call it? You’re aware of what you’re doing, right? I refuse to believe you’re as intelligent as you clearly are, and not know what it is you’re helping them with?”

Mycroft looked to the floor.

“I won’t lie. I am aware.”

“You’re leading them to their ruin, Mycroft. You’re actively participating in getting wild mages killed. Because that’s what they’re doing at the club. Getting rid of people like me to protect themselves.”

There was an odd look in Mycroft’s eyes as Greg met them again. “I don’t participate in--”

“But you do,” Greg insisted. “You really do.”

They stared at each other for a while, during which Greg wondered how Mycroft could even live with himself, knowing what organisation he worked for. Doing their dirty work for them. He knew there was a story behind everything. There had to be. He would ask Mycroft about it, at some point, but he had antagonised his captor enough for one day. When no answer came, he changed the subject.

“You think it’s wise for you to hide me? You should know best what happens to those who harbour a criminal.”

“Believe me, I do,” Mycroft answered with a sigh. “But there’s more to this than meets the eye, and I’d rather get to the truth. I’m missing something, but I’m not sure what it is. Someone wants to get rid of you, and they used Dr. Said’s death to do it. This was planned, and it wasn’t an easy task to temporarily fool me. The question is why.”

“Damned if I know,” Greg responded. “I’m the worst inspector at the Yard. You can ask anyone.”

“Hmm. Commissioner Hopkins might’ve mentioned it. He told me to not bring you back if I find you.”

Greg gestured around the room. “Then consider this a mission well done.”

Mycroft showed him a half-grin. “I suppose so. Though he has angered me often enough that I’m considering letting you go just to spite him. Alas, we have a murderer to find before it’ll be safe enough for you to leave.”

“So… you’re letting me go after this is over? You’re not… you know?”

“Mhmm… Your pattern has solidified over the last few hours. I believe I can’t, in good faith, call you a wild mage any longer.”

Greg almost fell from the bed. “What?” he exclaimed. “That’s a really poor joke.”

“It isn’t. I cast the spell on you earlier, but you can do it yourself now, if I’m right. Think of the magic filter you want to achieve and repeat after me.”

Mycroft hummed a low tone. Greg figured he had nothing to lose and repeated it. He took a few tries, but then his eyes started burning and everything in the room shifted from colourful to grey - except Mycroft. He stood in a cloud of red threads, which spun themselves through the air around him, like a school of crimson fish, leaving long trails in their wake. He stared fascinated as the pattern shifted on itself, and the threads faded in and out of existence, between clouds of almost transparent red smoke.

“By your reaction, I see you managed to perform the spell just fine. Hum the tone again, and concentrate on your desired outcome, if you want to cancel it.”

Greg did so immediately and then closed his eyes, rubbed his eyeballs. They were burning, as if he had gotten a handful of sand thrown into his face.

“How…?” he managed to ask.

“That’s something we’ll have to pursue later, as much as it pains me. We need to find the actual killer first.”

“You can’t just spring this on me without explanation!” Greg exclaimed, and looked at Mycroft, despite his hurting eyes. “This changes everything about my life!”

“I suppose so.”

Mycroft stepped forward and reached out with his hand as he approached Greg, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He was clearly about to say or do something, but then he held himself back.

“I want to ease the pain in your eyes, if you allow it,” he said, almost shyly.

Greg could only nod. He closed his eyes and felt Mycroft touch his eyelids. They grew cold for a moment, and the pain disappeared almost instantly.

“Thank you,” he said and saw Mycroft nod in response.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and much to Greg’s distress his brain reminded him of the fact how incredibly attracted he was to people, who looked like Mycroft. But there was something special about this man, which he couldn’t put his finger on - despite everything.

“You know I could’ve used a warning before you did that… thing. Yesterday,” he said.

Mycroft immediately took a step back, eyes wide. “I’m… oh god. I didn’t mean to. Not that. It was an accident. Believe me, please…”

Greg decided that he liked Mycroft much more when he was flustered. He seemed like a normal person then, far away from the cold man, who had visited him before.

“I mean, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy it,” he said with a dirty grin. “The next time you do it, maybe buy your victim a drink first.”

“Oh god…” Mycroft seemed to retreat into himself, put his face in both hands and took another step back. “Honestly. I’m so sorry…”

“Explain what happened to my magic, and I’ll call it even,” Greg said. “I won’t tell you anything more about my situation until I know what the hell is going on.”

Mycroft looked up, face still red, but he nodded all the same. “Alright. But I have a feeling you won’t like the implications…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long update wooooo


	7. Chapter 7

“What implications?”

Mycroft sighed and took a good, long look at Greg. The man had dressed in comfortable clothes, which only brought out his natural charm. Out of his work suit he looked relaxed and approachable… and his messy, dark hair stirred up something deep in Mycroft’s chest. Though, now that he looked at it again…

“Has your hair always been this… grey?”

Greg frowned. “I started turning prematurely, but I don’t think it’s that bad yet?”

Mycroft pointed at the mirror and Greg obediently went to check what had him so surprised. A small, shocked gasp told him everything he needed to know.

“Oh god… I don’t believe it…” Greg pushed his hands through the hair, of which almost half had gone grey overnight. Where it had only been a hint the day before, it now showed very visibly, glinting almost silver. “What did you do to me?”

“A side effect, it seems,” Mycroft mused, and then added in a much smaller voice: “It doesn’t look bad on you.”

Greg sighed. “Do you think it’ll turn completely?”

“There’s a chance…” Mycroft said. “Your body is changing rapidly, solidifying your pattern, and stabilising the magic energy. I have never seen anything like it before… I couldn’t tell you what’s going to happen.”

Greg turned around and leaned against the edge of the table, then crossed his arms. “Come on then, talk. Tell me what you do know.”

“As you know, children, who are born with the ability to accumulate and store energy in their bodies, grow up with it, and through their growth it settles, becomes manageable. We call them lucid, because they are able to to manipulate that energy with clear thoughts and spells. They grow up managing the energy and become adept.”

“So much for the history lesson.”

“Right,” Mycroft said, but didn’t let himself be distracted. He needed to lay his thoughts out as much for himself as for Greg. “Wild magic appears mostly spontaneously in children around sixteen years of age. It can appear later, but that’s more rare. The body is suddenly able to collect energy, but it’s not used to storing it. It is very unstable. When too much builds up, it gets released in a burst, usually triggered through a strong emotion. The buildup can be within minutes, or take years, depending on the person. These bursts are almost always harmful to those around the wild mage.”

He could’ve said more about the dangers, but he knew that Greg was more than aware of the fact himself. Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, when Greg had come into his wild magic, and how he had prevented himself from an accidental reveal.

“It seems that a match of magic patterns, which share the same activation frequency, can stimulate the integration of magic into a wild mage’s body and make it more stable.”

“It’s not the only thing that has been stimulated,” Greg quipped.

Mycroft briefly looked away. He wasn’t at all used to that sort of humour and it made him feel very embarrassed. As if the accidental release of the previous day hadn’t be bad enough. But Greg obviously covered his nervousness through jokes.

“Very funny,” Mycroft responded weakly. “But if it makes you feel better, the experience was… rather pleasurable for myself, as well. I have never felt magic that was so like my own. A complimenting frequency…”

“So what are you saying?”

“I believe you could attain full control of your magic with the right… stimulus.”

Greg’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not saying what I’m thinking you’re saying? Are you?”

“I’m merely suggesting an experiment so we can see what exactly resonates within the patterns. I need more data to give you a clear answer about your possible future.”

“So…” Greg started with a smile. “Are we doing this on the bed, or…”

“By god, won’t you take anything seriously?”

Greg’s face fell and he adopted a blank mask, which made Mycroft feel almost sorry. “I’m your prisoner. Your experiment. I have considered my life forfeit since the moment I bumped into you yesterday. Excuse me if I’m trying to have a little bit of fun during my last days.”

Mycroft’s throat closed up for a moment and his heart beat faster. He looked at the mystery that was Greg Lestrade, and suddenly he didn’t want to be in his position any longer. He didn’t want to be the kidnapper. Greg’s ruin. His probable death. What had gone wrong in his life that everyone always ran in fear when they saw him? When had Mycroft turned into the bloodhound of the Diogenes Club, the ruthless tracker? He had forgotten, but suddenly it felt so important to him that he should remember.

“I will…” he said slowly, voice wavering. “I will set you free after I have found the real murderer. You have my word. I will help you stabilise your magic pattern. Will you, in turn, help me find whoever put you in this situation? Be honest with me?”

Greg seemed lost for words. Then he walked over the few steps to Mycroft, who stood lost in the middle of the room, like he was afloat at sea. As Greg reached for his hand, he almost wanted to draw back, but then he let it happen.

“Thank you,” Greg said quietly, searching for Mycroft’s eyes. As they met, Mycroft almost forgot to breathe. “I will be honest.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered. “I… If you can change like that… what if everyone… oh god, what have I done? What have I done all these years? But they said… They always said I had to… I can’t… I…”

He forcibly pulled his hand back from Greg, his eyes large with unshed tears, a look of terror on his face. Then he was gone from the room, the door closing behind him with a loud noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter - but important developments  
> i just like cliffhangers, tbh


	8. Chapter 8

Greg saw the door slam and experienced a whole flood of conflicted emotions, but first and foremost was joy. He looked down at his hands and hummed the tone again, which Mycroft had shown him. The room faded to grey once more, but his hands were shining. There was still smoke, but the curves were more defined and had a slight pattern, which repeated itself over and over. The air around him was sparkling like the night sky.

This was it. This was the solution they had searched for… for decades. Ever since the Diogenes Club has risen to power and seized the sole authority over magic matters in England, over fifty years ago. No more fighting the symptoms of wild magic - this could potentially save everyone. Match a wild mage with a fitting lucid mage, and…

Greg looked up to where Mycroft had fled the scene. Traces of his red threads still spun themselves through the air, fading rapidly. He walked up to them and brought his hand through the spectre. The display was intangible, just like the man, who had left it. Greg felt a stab of emotion in his chest as he thought of Mycroft’s eyes just before he fled the room. He had wanted to make the man aware of his crimes, and he had succeeded. But why did the fact fill him with sadness, rather than joy?

It took two hours until Mycroft returned to the room. His eyes were bloodshot and his face of a sickly pallor. He appeared guarded, almost like a skittish animal, and remained near the door after closing it. Greg kept his distance, standing next to the window.

Mycroft glanced at the tray he had carried earlier. “You need to eat,” he said, voice hoarse. Had he been crying?

“Mycroft…” Greg started, but the man just shook his head.

“Tell me your story. You promised to be honest.”

Greg nodded.

—

Mycroft had crossed his arms, more to hold himself up, than to seem distant. The wall was the only support he had. He felt drained. His thoughts had spun themselves in circles. Every single mage he had delivered could’ve been saved. Every single person he had relinquished, turned his back on for his own convenience, could’ve been saved. Every day his research had continued, he had done so on the backs of the ones, who could’ve been saved. His academic pursuits seemed shallow in comparison. It had seemed so easy to just be ignorant. It had been the only way he could continue. But now… With one realisation, the floor had been pulled from underneath him.

Was he the first to realise this cure was possible? It seemed like something, someone else could’ve happened upon. Had the Diogenes Club known? Had they insisted he keep his research to lucid magic because of that? To not stumble on this solution?

“When I first came into my magic energy, I was fifteen. At the time I was apprenticed as a footman in a wealthy household in the countryside. My father had been a footman before me, and it was an honest job. I had no complains. There was this girl in the kitchens, who had been making eyes at me for a while. She was very pretty, if a bit dull, but that didn’t matter at the time. I didn’t know I had magic inside me, and when we kissed… it burst. I almost killed her.”

Greg had adopted a faraway look in his eyes. Mycroft couldn’t have interrupted him. His throat had closed up, and he was listening intently, soaking up every word of this world, which was so unfamiliar to him.

“It was only luck that saved me… saved us. The house I served in was very sympathetic towards wild mages. They didn’t rat me out, but took me under their wing… brought me to people who taught me how to keep the energy from bursting. When it was clear I had a larger amount of magic than most wild ones, they furnished me with the pocket watch relic. I’ve been carrying it since I was seventeen. I was so grateful that I agreed to help the cause. It’s why I joined the Yard with a fake pattern. Don’t ask me how we tricked the process to get me where I needed to be. It wasn’t easy.”

Mycroft swallowed. “You’re not capturing rogue wild mages. You’re helping them escape. That’s why you’re the worst inspector they have.”

“I get them the help they need to lead a normal life. We can only fight the symptoms, and it’s a pain, but it’s the only thing we could do. Until now.”

“I didn’t know,” Mycroft breathed. “I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.”

Mycroft looked into Greg’s eyes, searching for a hint of compassion that he didn’t deserve, but craved nonetheless. What he got was such an open look of soft sadness that he felt bad for even considering he was some kind of victim in this situation.

“How did you keep your job, if you…”

“Money and power. The family still has me under their wings. They finance large parts of the Yard. If I’m gone, the money will be gone. The family has enough influence to even get rid of the commissioner.”

“Then why not shut them down? Cut off the money completely?”

“Someone else will inevitably step up. Worst case, it’ll be the Diogenes Club itself. It gives them a semblance of control, for now.”

Mycroft considered Greg’s words. It was a precarious balance. Everything seemed just one little push from collapsing. Make one link break, and the situation was over. Was that what had happened here?

“Dr. Said was one of you?”

“He was our informant in the Diogenes. Andrew was… a good friend. He let us know of developments, so we could react, shift people, plan our escape routes. He used the internal resources to develop new ways to conceal and protect. His was the most dangerous position of all. He knew what he was getting into. Still, it hurts…”

“Do you think he… told them your name?”

“Andrew wouldn’t. Not ever.”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. He knew almost nothing of the people and their life outside the club. He had never stopped and thought about it. It had never been relevant. There was the work, and that had been enough. For most of the time. A face appeared before his inner eye and it made him cringe. Had everything been a lie? Even that?

“Well, now you know. Framing me for a murder would be a very clean method to get me out of the way. Framing me for Andrew’s murder is not only a way to get of us both, but also to spread suspicion within our own ranks.”

“That seems… plausible. I’m inclined to believe your tale for the moment,” Mycroft said. “But that makes one of the most probable suspects someone from the ranks of the Diogenes Club itself. I was called in to track you down without fail and bring you in without asking questions.”

“Because that’s what you do,” Greg stated.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, almost spitting his words. “That’s what I do. That’s what I’m known for. Perform. Don’t ask questions. Keep to your chambers Mycroft. Don’t talk to the others, Mycroft. Here’s another riddle to solve. Don’t go out.”

As Greg’s eyes widened, Mycroft realised he had said everything out loud and his pale face grew warmer. He contemplated leaving again, but then he figured that there was no point. Reluctantly he disengaged himself from the wall and walked a few steps, then sat down on the bed, facing away from Greg.

“It’s only fair I tell you some of my own story, as well, so you know where you stand.”

Greg didn’t reply, so Mycroft looked to the floor, hands on each side, gripping the bedding tightly. He took a deep breath and started talking, already aware that each word would be judged and weighted, not only by Greg, but also by himself. A little shift in perspective made his own life seem already worthless.

“I was born with magic. At six, I had to go through the test that every lucid child takes, to classify their ability, so they can be put in classes which support them best. By that time I had already made up my own magic language and soared high above all other children my age. I was removed from the school system and placed into higher education, with a personal mentor. I remained in relative isolation until I was twelve, by which I was sent to help the researchers at the Diogenes Club. When I was fifteen, I was given my own position.”

Mycroft looked up to see that Greg had moved through the room, now standing at the wall, where he had previously been, arms crossed, looking at him in deep thought. There was no judgement on his face yet, and that alone was enough for Mycroft to continue.

“I am fascinated by what makes energy react to human influence. How frequency can activate magic and make it perform. I have made it the central element of my studies, analysing spells from different languages to find out what is at the core… and then use that to further make my own language of magic. It’s… difficult to explain. You have to feel it. A mage can for example make a ball of light by saying ‘Fire and Light, Fire and Light, Fire and Light’. It’s a common spell, taught at a young age. But it’s not actually the words that make the spell, but the sound. Saying ‘i’ at the right pitch can induce the same reaction, if you concentrate on the desired outcome. By repeating it over and over, a mage will eventually happen on the right pronunciation and produce the spell. But if you know what makes the core, you don’t need to waste time.”

Mycroft held out his hand and said the letter once, very precise, sound cut off after half a second, and the light bloomed.

“You can combine these sounds too. It’s… a fascinating area of study. It has kept me occupied for… all my life. I craft new spells for the mages at the Diogenes, to use in stressful situations like combat.”

“That’s actually… really impressive,” Greg said just as Mycroft willed the light to go out again. “I mean, I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

“I’m a closely guarded secret,” Mycroft said with a sad smile. “I am discouraged from going anywhere but the club and my residence, and honestly I’ve never had any desire to do so. The work keeps me busy and the years go by.”

“But… you never… no friends? No… lovers?”

Mycroft looked up. “I don’t do friends. There is someone inside the club, who seeks me out for the other… thing, but it’s more of a convenient arrangement. And now that I think of it, it might not have even been real. Another way to bind me to the place I couldn’t leave from anyway.”

\--

Greg eyed Mycroft more closely, but the harder he looked, the more the man seemed like that fifteen year old boy, who had been locked up in this institution, away from family and friends, completely indoctrinated by the Diogenes Club. No wonder he had carried out whatever they had told him. He had never know anything else.

“Your family?” Greg asked, even if he was already afraid to know the answer.

“I saw them last when I was ten, I think. I don’t know if they’re still alive. I have heard of my brother a few times, when he brushed with the Diogenes on several occasions, but nothing more than the words in the reports. He’s lucid, too. I can’t say I miss them. I think I do, or I’m supposed to. It’s been so long. I don’t really miss… anything. There is nothing.”

It was that broken look on Mycroft’s face that made Greg step up. He walked over slowly, then sat down on the edge of the bed next to Mycroft, and wrapped his arms around him. The way Mycroft stiffened showed Greg that no one had hugged the man in a very long time. He seemed almost at a loss at how to react, but then he melted into Greg’s embrace and put his head on Greg’s shoulder, just as Greg did the same to him. After a few moments, he felt Mycroft’s hands on his back, cautiously testing the waters, but then he had two long arms wrapped around him in turn.

Neither of them said a word as they sat in an almost loving embrace, each lost in their own memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the feels!  
> who suspected this development? :D


	9. Chapter 9

“Greg…” Mycroft broke the silence after a few minutes, mumbling into the cloth of Greg’s shirt. “What do I do now? I… Taking you - hiding you was the first decision I made for myself in… ever, I believe. I never…”

Greg took a deep breath and held Mycroft a little closer. “You’re not going back, are you?”

“I couldn’t. No. Never again. Oh god… I… my research was everything I had. There’s no one… I…”

Mycroft started shaking and crying silently, grasping the cloth of Greg’s shirt tighter, burying his face in the man’s neck, tears rolling down Greg’s skin.

“Ssh, calm down. It’s alright,” Greg said and stroked Mycroft’s back, fingers gliding over the smooth cloth of his waistcoat. “You’ll be alright.”

“I won’t…” Mycroft whispered. “I don’t even know… oh, I’m pathetic. First I abduct you, threaten you, and now…? I can’t do anything right. I shouldn’t be allowed to do anything on my own. You should just leave. I’ll unlock the barrier.”

Mycroft mumbled a series of sounds and then there was a faint pop in the air.

“There, all gone. Leave me.”

“If you want me to go, you should stop clinging to me,” Greg said with a smile in his voice, and when Mycroft actually loosened his grip, he held him tighter in turn, pressing their bodies together. “But what if I don’t want to leave you?”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

“On the contrary. I’m thinking more clearly than I have in a long time. It may have been by accident, but you found the one way to actually save all wild mages from their ruin. You can’t give up now. You can research this. Apply your knowledge. Your unique skills. Teach others.”

Mycroft drew back a bit and stared into Greg’s eyes with obvious wonder. Greg’s breath hitched as Mycroft didn’t even seem to realise that their noses almost touched. He stared into these stormy blue eyes, which still swam with tears, but seemed to gaze into his very soul.

“How can you be so… optimistic in the face of… all this?”

“Because that’s what we do. We struggle and we survive. If you give up hope, then everything is lost.”

“Greg…” Mycroft said with a slight waver to his voice. “I don’t know how to do it. To be like you. With so much conviction and hope. Believing in yourself and in the cause you follow. I have never believed in anything, least of all myself.”

Greg raised his hand and placed it on Mycroft’s cheek, brushed away some tears with his thumb. He felt Mycroft shiver underneath his palm, holding his breath.

“You can start by believing in me, and in time, you may find other things too, maybe even yourself.”

“Why are you…?”

“...doing this?” Greg smiled. “I was prepared to die. I was prepared to hate you. But you have shown a capacity for change that I’d never thought possible. I think you can do more good in this world than the harm you caused. I want to help you save others… and yourself. I’m willing to take the chance.”

“Greg,” Mycroft’s voice almost broke. “I want to turn you into a lucid mage. I can sense that the change is slowing down, but if we accelerate it again, your potential may fully solidify faster than you think. If you allow me…”

“Anything,” Greg agreed.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s. It was more of a soft caress than an actual kiss, but he felt Mycroft almost crumble at the gentle touch, releasing a noise that was a thinly veiled sob. It came to his mind that Mycroft might have never known a loving touch like this, from someone who cared more about him as a human than the sum of his talents. While Greg was determined to bring Mycroft to his side to work for them, this was… different. He felt deeply drawn to this lost man. He wanted to hold him close and show him that there were people in the world, who were unlike his associates at the Diogenes Club. That there was still good, and that it was worth fighting for. Despite his situation, a light of hope bloomed in his chest, and he desperately wanted to share it.

Mycroft stared at Greg with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t believe he was still here. He changed his vision to see the magic more clearly, and Greg mimicked his spell. Then he joined their hands and hummed a low, continuous tone. Greg felt the same curious sensation as he had the day before, only now he knew what to expect, and he could lean into it, rather than pulling away. He squeezed Mycroft hands, encouraging him, which earned him a little, shy smile. Mycroft’s hands wandered up his arms until they cupped his face and he leaned in for a kiss that was almost chaste, but then he hummed against Greg’s lips and the skin grew hot between them.

Greg gasped as the sensation intensified and in turn he felt Mycroft’s heart speed up. That impossible man wasn’t moving, so he took matters into his own hands. With a bit of courage, he licked at Mycroft’s lips, which parted immediately in a silent invitation. As he felt the vibration of the frequency settle into both of their bodies - into their very bones - continuing even without Mycroft’s humming, showing that they were finally in sync, Greg couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned forward and pushed Mycroft down onto the bed, who went willingly, gazing up at Greg in wonder.

The air between them glowed in the low light of the room, silver and crimson smoke mingling, until he didn’t know where one started and the other ended. Both were fascinated by the display, by the colours and patterns dancing, pushing back and forth between their bodies. But Greg was soon distracted by the way Mycroft moaned and pushed himself off the bed, erection straining against the cloth of his trousers. He was panting, feeling, looking incredibly lost without Greg’s touch, staring at him like he was afraid.

Greg lowered himself to steal a kiss from Mycroft lips, their touch almost electric, air crackling between them, bursting into stars. He straddled his hips, brought both of their clothed cocks into close contact and rubbed himself against the other man without shame. Mycroft cried out and fisted the cloth underneath him, body convulsing, and Greg knew exactly what he felt, as the contact made him burn up from inside, arousal shooting up faster than he could think, his head swimming with the sensation that spread into his very fingertips. He felt his flesh burning from the inside, and he knew that his body was rearranging itself to accommodate that magic energy that called out to Mycroft, that drew him in. Now he knew what was happening, and as he welcomed the change, it wasn’t painful anymore, but a feeling of utter contentedness.

“Mycroft… I need to touch you. Please,” Greg huffed, moving against the body underneath him, coaxing sweet gasps from Mycroft’s throat.

“Yes…” Mycroft managed to respond. His fingers reached down and fumbled weakly with the cloth. Both of them somehow managed to remove their trousers, and as they joined again, hot flesh pressing against the other, it was almost over too soon.

Greg knew that neither of them could last, so he wrapped one hand around both of their erections and starting stroking with a strong grip. Mycroft immediately fell apart underneath him, bucking upwards into this source of pleasure, mumbling nonsense words, repeating Greg’s name over and over. His eyes stared unfocused towards the ceiling, his mouth open, panting, a blush high on his face, spreading down his neck. Greg wanted to see how far it extended, and suddenly he realised that there would be a next time… that he could actually find out. With the rush of emotion that this thought brought, he couldn’t keep it together any longer - but he didn’t have to.

He knew the exact moment Mycroft was coming, because the other man almost froze underneath him, straining upwards, his face locked in a silent scream. Greg felt Mycroft’s cock pulse between his fingers, against his own, and watched in awe as he spilled himself over his own chest. It was too much to take in. With another stroke or two, he followed Mycroft over, his whole body singing with magic potential, his very blood filled up with unknown power. He could see the magic clinging to both of them, now seeming irreversibly mixed up, a harmony of crimson and silver, embracing both men.

Greg collapsed against Mycroft in the aftermath, still breathing fast. They clung to each other like they would never let go again. Then he felt the moment the connection was severed, and it was almost sad, if he hadn’t still wrapped his arms around this impossible man, who had been his promised death just one day ago, and was now the personification of a brighter future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's your smut chapter. we have justified the rating! woohoo!


	10. Chapter 10

When he regained his senses, Mycroft felt more at peace than he could ever remember. It wasn’t just the act that had happened, not just the man he held in his arms, who was drifting slowly into sleep. No, it was that odd feeling of having a purpose that was larger than himself - larger than anything he had ever imagined. And most of all, it was a purpose he had chosen for himself. He wanted to help Greg. To help all of them. And in time, he could maybe atone for a fraction of the sins he had committed in his lifetime, even though he felt every life that had passed through he hands heavy on his shoulders, especially because he didn’t remember most of them.

But if Greg was willing to take a chance on him, despite the horrors that he had perpetrated against his kind, he would be willing to take a chance on himself. He couldn’t even fathom what a vast capacity of goodness and hope lived inside Greg’s chest. He nuzzled his face into the skin of Greg’s shoulder, but then he felt him wince in pain.

“It’s starting again,” Greg mumbled, barely awake. “It hurts.”

“I can help you, if you allow me. I can feel the changes flowing through you. You only need one more small push.”

“Then push me,” Greg breathed and rolled on his back, exposing all of himself in a gesture of absolute trust.

Mycroft’s breath caught briefly, as he looked down on the body that was offered to him, to do with as he pleased. It affected him more than he would ever admit. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned Greg’s shirt and pushed the cloth aside. He traced his fingers down Greg’s chest, then his legs, feeling for a flow of energy, feeling where it was still interrupted. He was glad to find that the distribution was now more or less equal, instead of one big concentration in the chest, as it was with most wild mages. Almost there…

Hesitating for a moment, Mycroft decided to remove the rest of his own clothes, then straddled Greg’s legs and put both hands on his chest. He had a plan in mind, but it was something he had never done before. But he wouldn’t be the best spellweaver in London, if he couldn’t work it out. Mycroft started humming again, but more gently this time, until he felt the connection between both of them slotting back neatly into place. It got easier every time. Greg’s relaxed mood, completely without fear, soaked into his body, and made him almost bubble with joy. Slowly, meticulously, he weaved the mending spell into the frequency, until he felt it taking hold, repairing the damage that the new change had wrought on Greg’s body.

With a sigh, Mycroft lowered himself, so his body covered Greg’s, touching as much skin as possible, so he could monitor the changes in his whole body. When he felt the flow lessen, he pushed the mending a bit more, when he felt the pain grow too much, he pulled it back. The magic rolled over them like a tidal wave, rearranging the last important details in Greg’s body.

He had expected for Greg to long have fallen asleep, and was surprised when he felt a hand on his back, and an arm pulling him closer.

\--

Pain and pleasure filled Greg’s mind in equal parts, making him float a little outside his own body, grounded only by Mycroft’s reassuring presence. With every minute, the overall pain lessened, and another feeling set it. He was aware of every inch of his body. He could feel the magic everywhere, see his own pattern in front of his mind’s eye, solidifying itself into an intricate maze of smoky swirls, almost like a painting. The silver sparks glowing around it grew ever brighter.

He felt every push that Mycroft gave him, carefully dosed, with a gentle attention to detail. Greg had never felt as cared for in his entire life, and his heart was straining against his chest. He had known this man only for a day, but he already felt like he was a part of him, which would kill him if it was removed. He knew, instinctively, that they were linked now, and would be forever, not only through magic. It filled him with a certain sense of fear, but he had known fear all his life, and it was easy to push aside to examine the possibilities instead.

As another wave of pain coursed through his veins, and Mycroft pushed back with that pleasurable frequency, Greg felt himself growing hard again, twitching against Mycroft’s leg. Every feeling was heightened in their connection, and as he opened his eyes, he found Mycroft staring into them, his pupils wide, a blush on his cheeks, looking like he’d pounce at any second, but unsure if it was welcome.

“Push me,” Greg said and dug his nails into Mycroft’s back.

The reaction was instantaneous and explosive. Mycroft moaned loudly and pushed his body against Greg’s - the evidence of his arousal hard as steel against his skin. Greg knew immediately what he wanted and spread his legs, Mycroft’s knees falling onto the bedding between them. He loomed over Greg, breathing heavy, his concentration wavering. The gentle waves of magic were getting more erratic, spikes of pain and pleasure hitting Greg’s very core. With every push, he felt himself growing more aroused, as he felt - he knew - that Mycroft wanted him just as much as he wanted Mycroft.

“I want to take you,” Mycroft whispered, as if it was a secret. “I want to become one with you.”

“You’re already inside me,” Greg replied. “I will carry you with me for the rest of my life.”

Mycroft’s eyes filled with tears and he released a sob as leaned down to kiss Greg, long and hard. Their tongues met, their teeth clashed, as they tried to get closer, closer, ever closer. Both gasped for air, but were unwilling to separate for even a second. Mycroft reached down between Greg’s legs and pushed his finger in without warning, not able to wait a second longer. His hands magically coated themselves with a slick liquid, which he spread everywhere he could reach, and then over his own cock, moaning at the smooth touch.

“You’re full of surprises,” Greg couldn’t help but say and laughed as he felt himself being opened like that.

“Just an open mind for improvisation.”

“Take me, Mycroft. Please. I want to feel you.”

Not able to refuse a single plea, Mycroft started pushing in, slowly, but steadily. Greg’s head fell back against the sheets as he willed himself to stay relaxed, the feeling of being filled overwriting all other sensations. Neither of them seemed to be breathing until Mycroft was fully seated. Then Greg felt himself being stared at with wide eyes full of wonder and anxiety.

“Please tell me you’re really here,” Mycroft breathed. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“I’m here, darling. I will always be. I’ll take you with me, wherever I’ll go.”

Mycroft shivered and brushed his hands down Greg’s legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “You’re everything I have now. There is nothing else anymore.”

“Then I will be all you need,” Greg said and reached for Mycroft’s hand. 

Their fingers entwined and he could see a few tears rolling over Mycroft’s face. He took a chance and started humming in the frequency that connected them, and the change was remarkable. Where he had only been able to take what Mycroft had offered before, he was now able to concentrate his magic and push back. He could see how the pleasure rolled over the other man’s body, eliciting a loud moan, making him almost fall over. Mycroft’s eyes were wide in surprise, even as Greg felt him growing harder inside him. He shivered in anticipation.

“Fuck me,” he said and reached out with his magic again, more concentrated this time.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and drew out a bit, until he pushed back in, not only physically, but magically. Instead of feeling the intrusion only at one point, Greg felt it in every last part of his body. Mycroft set a steady rhythm, not only in motion, but also in magic, making their connection sing with every little movement. Greg could only lay back and take it, the feeling building inside him, until every last bit of pain disappeared and there was only pure pleasure.

He cried out continuously, gasping, fighting for air as he felt himself growing closer with every movement. Mycroft had closed his eyes, mouth slack in satisfaction, as he moved, concentrated on making every push feel as good as possible. But Greg wanted more. He wanted to feel Mycroft inside him, to leave something tangible behind. So he took a deep breath, focused on their frequency and pushed back hard. Mycroft’s eyes flew open in shock, his face full of surprise, as the feedback hit him, and with a groan he was coming, holding himself deep inside Greg’s body, panting, cursing. Greg could feel him pulsing inside him, felt the rush of warmth with an odd feeling of pride. Then Mycroft’s hand was on his cock and his focus shifted immediately. He cursed and strained towards the hand - those long, elegant fingers wrapped around him, the connection that sang between them.

“Greg, please… come for me,” Mycroft breathed, his voice hoarse from strain.

Greg could barely try to formulate an answer, when Mycroft had already moved down and gathered his cock in his mouth, sucking hard. He screamed with the sensation and bucked up into the heat, coming almost an instant, directly down Mycroft’s throat. He thrashed and rolled, but Mycroft held him down, gently swallowing around him, until he calmed down.

“You’re… you…” Greg mumbled.

Mycroft shifted up and looked at him with a sheepish grin, evidently very proud of himself. This time he didn’t sever the connection, so Greg felt it between them still - a warm feeling of belonging. Of home.

He knew they didn’t have much time, should someone come searching for Mycroft in the morning, but he couldn’t detach himself from the man just now. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the magic enveloping them completely, changing both of their lives forever.


	11. Chapter 11

Greg woke up alone. His body didn’t feel like his own. There was a strength, an awareness, which was unlike he anything he had ever experienced. He grabbed a pillow and said a levitation spell out loud, which he had seen other mages perform. It took him three tries, then the pillow floated from his hands towards the ceiling.

A feeling of absolute joy bubbled up in his chest, and he started laughing, falling back into the sheets. This was surreal. It had just worked. Nothing hurt, nothing exploded. He could simply cast a spell and… it worked. He stared at the pillow, which rolled slowly along the wooden paneling of the ceiling, and catalogued the sensations in his body. He hadn’t been completely right. There was one, dull pain, sitting low in his body. In front of his mind’s eye was Mycroft’s face, as he had pushed into him, again and again, eyes closed in pleasure. A shiver ran over Greg’s body and his heart ached in that particular way when you think about… no. It couldn’t be. Not yet. They had barely known each other for two days, and for half of it Greg had been sure Mycroft would… he shook his head. Let the past be in the past.

But where was Mycroft now? Greg sat up and took a look around. Positioned on a nearby chair were some new garments in an inconspicuous grey. He jumped up, walked to where the pillow was still on the ceiling and caught it neatly, after cancelling the spell. How easy it all seemed, now. He walked to the door, hesitating just a moment, but then turned the door handle. It opened without problem. Greg felt some tension melt from his shoulders. He shouldn’t have doubted, but he couldn’t help it.

Back to the clothes, then to the wash basin, which contained cold water. He looked up into the mirror, and…

“Oh, by all that’s holy… Really?”

Greg groaned and pushed his fingers through his hair, which was now completely grey, shining silver where the light hit it. He felt old beyond his years, even though his body felt younger than ever. There was nothing to be done. With a sigh he tried to tame his hair as well as he could, dressed and then turned to leave the room.

In the hallway outside, which lay almost completely in shadow, he walked into Mycroft, who had been approaching the room. He laughed softly as they met, eyes sparkling even in the dark, and before they exchanged a word, their lips met in such a sweet kiss that threatened to make Greg sink to his knees. He fisted the fabric of Mycroft‘s jacket and pulled him closer, until they stood in a loving embrace, foreheads touching, eyes closed.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said softly. “I trust you feel rested?”

“I’ve never felt so good in all my life,” Greg replied with a content sigh. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched. “Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

Greg laughed quietly and sought out another kiss, which was willingly given. But as they separated, he could see the sadness in Mycroft’s eyes, even in the low light.

“We should go,” Mycroft said. “Someone will come looking for me, if I’m late… because I’m never late.”

“Mycroft…” Greg whispered as he saw silent tears, running down the mage’s face.

“Pathetic, isn’t it? This should be the easiest decision I should ever make. There should be nothing keeping me here, and still…”

Greg wrapped his arms around the man and pressed Mycroft’s head into his shoulder. “There is nothing pathetic about mourning. You’re leaving the reality that you’ve lead for over thirty years. No matter the reason, it’s been your life, and you should be happy about the positive things that you achieved. You’re the most accomplished man I have ever met and I’m in awe of your talents. This step only means you’re going to do something even greater.“

Mycroft sobbed into Greg’s shoulders, mumbling something that he couldn‘t understand, shaking slightly. Greg reached up and stroked his hair gently, carefully holding one of the most powerful mages in the country as if he might break.

“Don’t leave me,” Mycroft whispered against the skin of Greg’s neck. “It’s selfish for me to demand, considering everything, but I can’t do this without you.”

“You’re allowed to be a little selfish. Have you ever wanted anything for yourself?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I took what I was given.”

“Then I feel honoured to be the first thing you cling to so desperately.”

“Greg…”

Mycroft sought out his lips again, and they shared a kiss that touched Greg’s very soul. Mycroft’s breath evened out after a while, and calm returned to his body. He reached down to pick up a small bag, which wasn’t bigger than a suitcase, and with his other hand grasped Greg’s fingers.

“Let‘s go. I made sure they won‘t be able to follow us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve installed relics filled up with cleansing fire inside every room of the house. When we’re far away enough… Don’t say anything. It’s my choice. I can’t be holding on to the past for sentimental reasons, when every trace in this room links me to you and could expose us immediately.”

Greg swallowed. He imagined his own, measly rooms going up in flames and a sharp stab of anxiety and sadness hit his chest. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand.

“If you’re sure.”

“I need to atone for my sins.”

Greg shook his head. “What about your research?”

“I can’t get to the notes in the Diogenes anymore, but the rest will go up in flames. Every result is safe in my head. I can’t, in good faith, leave them with anything…”

Greg followed Mycroft with uneasy steps through the building. It was a clean, well-kept townhouse with two floors and several small rooms. It looked peaceful and warm - just the kind of place that Greg had always wanted. He grew ever more nervous, thinking about the location that he had to bring Mycroft to. The difference. Would it be too much? But did they have a choice? He wanted this. Wanted to bring Mycroft into his world. Greg would make sure that the mage was alright, no matter where they were going. He already felt so fiercely protective of Mycroft that he couldn’t believe it himself.

They exited through the back door, into a small garden. Mycroft lead him to a trap door, hidden behind some rose bushes and Greg went down into the underground without question. They ended up in a small room, filled with laboratory equipment. Greg just wanted to ask, but then there was an explosion above their heads. Mycroft cringed as if someone had stabbed him, but shook his head as Greg wanted to approach. Instead he turned towards the room, and with a muttered sound, everything in it fell apart into thousands of little pieces, looking more like a pile of rubble. Then he walked up to a solid wall and held out one hand towards it, then beckoned Greg over.

They walked along, a few metres underground, the earth opening in front of them and closing behind them. They crossed coal cellars, storage rooms and spaces Greg didn’t even want to think about, until they walked into a completely empty room, from which they walked up the stairs to end up on a busy street.

“Remarkable…” Greg whispered as they stood next to each other, as close as they could in public.

“Thank you. The trail should be quite untraceable underground. Now, where do we go?”

Mycroft made it sound conversational, but the fear in his words was clear. This was it. This was as far as he knew where to go. This was where he handed his life to Greg.

“Follow me, darling.”


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft clung to Greg in closed hansom cab, clasping his hand so hard that he feared he might break some bones. They had procured the ride after only a little while, passing on two open carriages in fear of discovery. The cabbie had first refused to take them to the address that Greg had provided, south of London, about an hour to go. An offer to double his usual rate, and payment up front had quickly turned around his mind. Mycroft didn’t mind paying. He had put aside a sizable amount of money in private accounts, which weren't linked to the Diogenes itself. He had never used it for himself, piling up what he could. It had been a random decision at the time, but now he was glad for his foresight.

As they rattled through the streets, Mycroft leaned his head on Greg’s shoulder, then buried his face into his neck. He felt Greg’s hand on his back, stroking gently. They didn’t exchange many words at first, sitting in silence until they had cleared what could be considered the city, and rolled out into the more rural area.

“I will make sure they don’t attack you,” Greg said. “I know you’ve brushed with some of the Irregulars before.”

“Some encounters, yes…” Mycroft replied thoughtfully. “I never had any desire to fight. I defended myself where needed, but ran whenever possible. They usually did the same.”

“Hmm. I’ve been warned about you, you know. To never cross your path.”

“I never killed anyone. Despite our antagonistic feelings, I could never…”

“I don’t think it was that. It’s the fact that you represented the investigative arm of the Diogenes Club. The Irregulars are underground for a reason. You were… simply the best at sniffing us out.”

Mycroft huffed. “Not a fact I’m proud of… anymore.”

“But you should be, I think. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your skills, or hide them. You can now use them for us. For good.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Greg moved closer to Mycroft and pressed their bodies together. “It will be. In time.”

The cab circled around a low brick wall, and then it came to a gate to what looked like… 

“A cemetery?” Mycroft asked, surprised.

“All will be revealed in time.”

The disembarked the cab and Mycroft pressed a few extra coins into his hand, asking him to keep silent about their journey. The man was happy to oblige.

It was still morning, and a low fog clung to the ground, making the tombstones pop up like small building from a cloud. A few people were around, but the area was rather quiet. Greg lead them along a well-walked path to the south-east, under old trees and past elaborate memorials.

“Are you sure of where we’re going?” Mycroft mused as he had a look around. Save for the graves and the empty chapels, the cemetery was now all but deserted around them.

“Very. In here now.”

Greg lead Mycroft into one of the chapels and closed the door behind them. It was cold inside, despite the early summer day. The silence was reverent in a way that only places of worship could ever achieve. There wasn’t much in the small building. A little altar with a rendition of Mary and Jesus, a few fresh flowers. In the corner, though, there was a curious hole in the ground. Mycroft wanted to walk closer, but then the whole chapel lit up with yellow light.

He could feel electricity run along his skin and cast a barrier around himself and Greg without even thinking about it. Another lightning tried to penetrate it, casting harsh shadows on the walls. Behind him. Mycroft whirled around, and with the help of the next flash pinpointed the location of their attacker. A second later, he had a hand at his throat, arms and legs pinned to the wall by red ribbons, which looked like his magic pattern made real. The mage had wide eyes full of fear, though his fingers were still crackling with energy, which he was unable to cast. Mycroft had cut off his air supply in a way it didn’t kill him, but made it impossible to speak.

“Mycroft!” Greg shouted in panic, fists hammering against the barrier that had been left around him. “Stop! He’s on our side!”

Mycroft’s body was still rigid, brimming with adrenaline. He stared at the immobilised man in front of him with what he knew were his most cold and unfeeling eyes. The mere thought of Greg being harmed had pushed him more than any other situation had ever done. On the inside his heart was racing and his blood was boiling, but on the outside he looked as calm and collected as if he had simply stepped out for coffee.

Greg stumbled to the ground behind him, as the barrier was released and ran over. He gently placed his hand on Mycroft’s arm, where he held the other man, and Mycroft reluctantly released his grip. The man coughed heavily, eyes watering. He was tall and slender, with darker skin and short, black hair. His eyes shined with an unnatural green as he glared at Mycroft, then looked at Greg with panic and confused fear.

“He’s with me, Nihal. I brought him here.”

“You’re… mad…” the man called Nihal said, his voice still rough, but recovering. “The bloodhound… here…”

“Mycroft isn’t with the Diogenes Club anymore. He’s with me. With us.”

Nihal blinked disbelievingly, but the electricity between his fingers fizzed out. A few hummed sounds later, the red ribbons retracted and dissolved into air. Mycroft took a step back, posture straight, weary of the strange man. Then Greg stepped up to him and grabbed his hand, placed a kiss on it, and Mycroft was snapped out of his mood.

“No secrets,” Greg said. “I don’t do secrets here. I had enough to hide during my life, that I don’t want to continue here. I will stand with you.”

Mycroft was temporarily dumbfounded. He looked at Greg, who smiled at him warmly… and, dared he think, full of love? His heart clenched curiously.

“Oh, please tell me you’re joking,” Nihal said, now standing upright with crossed arms. There was a faint bruise where Mycroft had held his throat, but otherwise he looked alright. “You can’t just…”

“What?” Greg said and glared at the man.

“You and… him?” he replied and held up his hands before Greg could reply. “I’m just glad you’re alive. There’s a price on your head.”

“I know, believe me. I need to go into hiding. We both need to.”

“I severed my connection to the club,” Mycroft said. “I’m… here to assist you.”

“Don’t blame me if I don’t believe you,” Nihal responded.

Mycroft shook his head and smiled sadly. “I would be surprised if anyone believed me.”

“Well, if Greg vouches for you, then that’s good enough for me... for now. I’m supposed to bring you to the council. We detected you entering the cemetery and I was sent to fetch you. We didn’t detect him, though…”

Greg looked at Mycroft, who shrugged. “Concealing my presence is somewhat of a second nature to me.”

“Alright,” Nihal said and held out his hand. “We started this on the wrong foot. The name’s Nihal Rohan, paladin of the Irregulars.”

“Mycroft Holmes, formerly of the Diogenes Club,” Mycroft replied and took the man’s hand. As their skin touched, he hummed a series of notes, which let several filters wash over his eyes. He could see the magic pattern of Nihal, which was of a bright orange with flecks of gold glittering around him. Akin to his attack, the pattern was crackling like lightning.

“Pleased, I’m sure…” Nihal said and then turned to Greg.

He stepped up to the man and placed a kiss on Greg’s lips, enveloped him in a loving embrace. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered and dragged Greg closer with both hands low on his back. “This doesn’t mean that we’re through, or does it? We’re so good together…”

“Greg?” Mycroft said quietly, his heart speeding up. “What…?”

“You just love to make trouble,” Greg said with a sigh and pushed Nihal away, who went with a sad smile.

“If I had known that the last time was actually our very last time, I would’ve tried that thing I told you about, where…”

“Nihal!” Greg exclaimed. “Enough now. We can talk about this later.”

“Fine, fine,” he said and grinned as he happened upon Mycroft’s confused expression. “But now that I look at him, he’s is rather good looking. I wouldn’t mind being invited…”

“Just lead the way.”

Nihal shrugged and winked at Mycroft, before he turned towards the hole in the corner of the chapel. Mycroft felt Greg’s hand slide into his and he forced him to look at him.

“Nihal and me… we’re not in any relationship. Have never been. But neither of us had someone else, so it… happened from time to time, you know.”

Mycroft’s thoughts drifted to his own, convenient attachment, and his feelings cooled down a bit. “I understand. I… told you I had someone similar. His name was Fenton Ashcroft. It wasn’t anything serious… he just sought me out when he felt the need for some closeness.”

“What a pair we are?” Greg said and nudged Mycroft playfully, who gave him a smile in response.

“Indeed.”

“I said I’ll stand by you, and I will continue to do so. Believe me?”

Mycroft leaned over and stole a quick kiss, in his mind overwriting the one Nihal had placed on Greg’s lips earlier.

“I do.”

“Oh, come on. Do that where I can’t see you,” Nihal said in a mock-offended voice.

He was standing on a platform, which had come up from the strange hole, and Greg lead Mycroft to stand beside him, then squished in next to them.

“This is where they lower down the coffins into the catacombs,” Greg explained as the mechanical noise grew louder and they started moving down. “But not all of the catacombs are used for the dead…”


	13. Chapter 13

At the bottom of the lift, they were welcomed by a mixed group of lucid and wild mages. Mycroft analysed their patterns quickly and found that while none of them would be able to stand up to him on his own, all of them together would be tough. Not impossible, but a challenge. One he didn’t particularly want to undertake.

One of the men dragged Nihal from them and to the back. He departed with a sheepish smile and a shrug in Greg’s general direction. Mycroft and Greg found themselves completely surrounded, unconsciously moving closer to each other. Mycroft was aware that Greg had most likely nothing to fear from any of them, so he appreciated the way that he stood close to Mycroft and held his hand. He willingly put himself in the line of fire. Mycroft squeezed the hand once to convey at least a tiny fraction of his gratitude.

“We’re here to escort you to the council,” one of the women with long, blonde hair said. “No, not both of you. Only him.”

As she pointed at Mycroft, he sighed. He had expected that. But Greg grew agitated at his side.

“I will go with him,” he stated.

“No, you won’t,” the woman replied. “This is a private audience. You will be sent for later.”

“You can‘t--”

“It’s okay,” Mycroft said with a smile and let go of Greg’s hand. “You’re kind to offer to accompany me, but I can’t just always rely on you.”

“Let’s go,” the woman said.

Two men attempted to grab Mycroft by his upper arms, but their hands couldn’t even reach the cloth of his suit. They tried again, with more force, but with a few sounds Mycroft had cast an invisible barrier around him, which pushed any attempt to touch him back, the air around him colder than ice. He looked down at the men with narrowed eyes, which had an icy-blue sheen, and his voice dropped lower as he spoke.

WI will not be in any way contained. I will go willingly, but I refuse to be touched by you.”

The mages shrunk back visibly in the face of Mycroft’s display. None had heard the spell being cast, which had been the intended effect. For them, Mycroft had conjured the barrier up by the sheer force of his will - something possible only in murmured legends. Mycroft looked back at Greg, nervous, his eyes still glowing. But instead of the fear he saw on the others, Greg looked at him with loving admiration. Mycroft almost faltered at this sight and took a step over to Greg, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, the icy air flowing along Greg’s skin, letting him, and only him, close enough to touch.

“I’ll see you later… my dear,” he whispered, for Greg’s ears only, and he felt the man shiver, not knowing if it was the cold or something else.

Then he turned and motioned for the others to start walking. They progressed with an uneasy atmosphere, through several chambers, filled with rows upon rows of coffins. Some were new, with gleaming metal, some were already partially rotten. The air smelled of mold, damp and cold, almost like a cavern. Finally they turned to a door, which lead into a long tunnel, at the end of which a red curtain was pushed to the side to allow Mycroft into a larger chamber, which was decidedly nicer than the rest of the catacombs. The walls were covered by more red cloth, and the floor with colourful carpets. There were a few chairs at the sides, and also some closed closets. The way the curtains at the other end moved, showed Mycroft that there was a space behind, which got air from the surface, and indeed, not seconds after he had been directed to stand in the middle of the otherwise empty room, the curtain parted.

An old man walked out, probably over seventy, but in good physical shape. He had short, white hair and a grey, full beard. He was clad in a dark, striped suit, forgoing any coat or jacket, just with a waistcoat over a grey shirt. His trousers sparkled with what Mycroft immediately recognised as silver shavings that fell off the metal when you modified it in certain mechanical works. He didn’t have a magic pattern, not even a hint of energy. A regular person, then. Curious.

After him, a tall woman walked out, in a wide, white dress. Her dark hair was piled up in tasteful ringlets on her head, her skin almost as white as the dress, eyes dark as ebony. She walked slowly, every step carefully placed, her eyes narrowed at Mycroft not in disdain, but in thought. Her magic pattern was as white as her dress, almost blinding, clouds floating around her, concealing her form.

White. What a surprise. Despite having lucid talent, white mages had no means to store any large amount of energy. They were considered the weakest of all. So a non-mage and a weak one made up the council? It would’ve been an impossible task to get anyone at the top of the Diogenes, who wasn’t a master in magic, but the Irregulars seemed to have different rules.

“Welcome to our… well, hideout,” the woman said and pointed to the elderly man. “This is Werner. I am called Irene. We are two of the council of three.”

“Thank you. My name is--”

“Mycroft Holmes. The bloodhound of the Diogenes Club. Of course we know who you are. You’re one of the last people I’ve ever expected to see down here. Well, at least on a social visit,” she mused, but the man’s face didn‘t move. He frowned at Mycroft as if he wanted to figure him out.

Mycroft’s eyes sparked with blue fire. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are. You may thank Gregory Lestrade for my presence… I trust you know what’s happening to him?”

“We know he’s being hunted down for murdering Doctor Andrew Said,” Irene answered.

“He’s being framed. I believe the murderer is to be found within the ranks of the club itself. I… tracked Greg down, but realised he wasn’t the culprit. So I took him in, and he convinced me to place my talents in your service instead of theirs.”

Irene exchanged a glance with Werner, expressing their disbelief.

“Greg convinced you to switch sides?”

Mycroft sighed. “Considering my status at the Diogenes Club and the years, in which we were enemies, I understand if you don’t believe me right away. Frankly, I have a hard time grasping the whole thing myself. But I have information to give you, which could turn this war of decades in just a few weeks. And it’s information the Diogenes doesn‘t have.”

Irene’s eyes sparkled. She snapped her fingers. The curtain moved, then parted and a man, taller than her, clad in a coarse linen shirt and flimsy cloth trousers, held up with suspenders, appeared. He had a head of curly, dark hair and large eyes, which scrutinised Mycroft intently. Both of them let their eyes flicker, analysing the other almost synchronous, then Mycroft let out a small gasp.

“He’s telling the truth,” the man said to Irene. “Nothing in his pattern or his behaviour, nor speech, would suggest a lie. I can’t believe it, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”

Mycroft stared at the younger man, who had a pattern, which looked almost identical to his own. Threads spun themselves through the air around him - only they were of a much brighter red than Mycroft’s own crimson. His throat closed up and his barrier wavered.

“Sherlock?” he said, voice heavy with emotion.

“Brother,” Sherlock acknowledged him.

“You were just a baby when they took me away. Barely one year old. But your pattern is as clear now as it was then,” Mycroft said. “Why are you… how are you…?”

Sherlock walked over to Irene and placed an arm around her waist.

“I’m married to Irene. The Irregulars are my family. Our family.”

“But… our parents?”

A shadow passed over Sherlock’s eyes. “When you were twelve, they tried to get you out of the club. They didn’t want to sign you away to this life in… what is basically slavery. The club didn’t come for me - I was afraid. I hid my talents, so they weren’t interested. You were only ever talked about in hushed tones. I didn’t want to end up like you.”

“What happened when I was twelve?” Mycroft asked, his shoulders sinking, barrier fading out, eyes dull.

“They came too close to you and were taken away. I never saw them again. The night before they attempted to get you out, they placed me with family friends. I think they knew the risk… I was only seven when the Irregulars took me in.”

Mycroft looked to the ground. Despite the long time, despite the distance he thought he had, despite… everything, his eyes filled with tears, which fell silently to the ground. A numbing sadness filled his body, which felt almost paralysing.

“They died because of me,” he whispered.

“They died because of the Diogenes Club,” Sherlock said.

A shiver ran through Mycroft‘s body. “And I enabled the club to find so many…”

He started sobbing, his voice cut off. The front he had wanted to present was well and truly gone. His hand twitched, and with a start he realised that he longed to feel Greg’s reassuring touch. He felt ill at ease separated from the man. Already. The thought warmed his heart a little in the middle of all this misery.

“Tell me about the information that’s supposed to save us,” Irene said. “You can mourn later.”

“Irene…” Sherlock whispered.

“No. He’ll tell us now.”

“I will,” Mycroft said, voice slightly broken. “But I need Greg in here to show you, so you’ll believe me.”

“Very well. Bring him here.”

Mycroft stood nervously in front of the council, glancing furtively at Sherlock, who seemed so familiar and yet so alien to him. His brother made no attempt to speak to him again, so he kept quiet too. Then the curtain behind them moved and Greg stepped into the room. His eyes met Mycroft’s, and widened as he saw his tears. Mycroft shook his head to indicate he was alright, and Greg came to stand next to him, arms almost touching.

“Now speak,” Irene said.

“We had this discovery quite by accident. Through it, Greg is now a lucid mage.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock said.

Both his and Irene’s eyes changed after they said the filter spell. The moment in which they recognised Greg’s silver pattern was clear to see.

“How?” Sherlock demanded to know.

“Greg’s and my magic seem to react to the same frequency. They connect in a feedback loop when activated at the same time. I think the body of the wild mage can be taught how to correctly store stable energy by the example of the lucid mage, when they’re connected… thereby accomplishing the integration of energy into the body of the mage, which is usually only possible when a child grows up with it. Greg’s body has developed a clear pattern after only two days.”

“So you claim that if you match a lucid mage with a wild one on the same frequency…”

“They turn lucid, yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, then he turned and ran away, bare feet pattering on the stone floor.

“Seems like Sherlock believes you,” Irene said. “My husband is always a bit… impulsive.”

“This makes you my sister-in-law,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Irene replied with a smirk. “We will reconvene later. The council will discuss your input. In the meantime, Nihal can show you to a temporary quarter.”

Werner nodded at Mycroft before he disappeared after Irene behind the curtain. What was his purpose here, Mycroft wondered. Then Nihal placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s get some tea while the important people talk.”


	14. Chapter 14

“So. How did that happen?” Nihal asked as he pointed from Greg to Mycroft. “I mean… I’m not judging, but… okay, yes. I’m judging you.”

Greg sighed and reached for the teapot to fill their cups. He exchanged a glance with Mycroft, who just shrugged. The man seemed off somehow, but he couldn’t ask him about it with Nihal around…

“We seem to be very compatible,” Greg simply replied.

“What… in bed?”

Mycroft blushed and looked into his cup.

“Oh my, that’s adorable. The bloodhound, shy as a mouse,” Nihal said and laughed.

“Don’t call him bloodhound,” Greg rebutted.

“It’s alright, Greg,” Mycroft said. “I don‘t mind.”

“Well, I mind,” Greg responded with a frown.

“You must be incredible in bed. He never stood up for me like that,” Nihal said to Mycroft.

“Maybe because we weren’t in a relationship, Nihal. Also you can stand up just as well for yourself.”

“Ah, so the tenacious, notorious tracker - one of the most powerful mages of the Diogenes - can’t fight his own battles?”

Greg sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, Nihal, I know this is a rather big leap to take. It’s bigger for him than for any of us. Imagine you had to leave your life behind and join the Diogenes?”

“I could never,” Nihal said.

“See?”

“No, you see. I could never, because the Diogenes Club would have me killed after extracting what they need to know about the Irregulars,” Nihal said in an icy tone.

Mycroft exchanged a strange look with him, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was flat and resigned. “I could apologise every day for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t be enough. What do you want me to say?”

Nihal swallowed visibly. A few tense seconds passed, but then his shoulders sank. “If your frequency theory is working, I’d consider your debt paid. You could’ve simply handed that information to the Diogenes, but you put your life on the line instead.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shocked surprise at Nihal’s words, and he drew in a sharp breath. His eyes filled with tears, and he looked down on the table. “I will never consider it paid, but thank you for saying this.”

Nihal nodded.

“Can’t you give us a few minutes?“ Greg asked, still slightly distressed over Mycroft’s state. “The room is tiny and has only one exit. Where should we go?”

“Sorry. Orders are orders. Can’t let you out of sight.”

“Fine,” Greg replied, thinking about the way that Mycroft had lead them away underground. It was wise to place a guard on them, though it irked him a bit that he couldn’t be alone with Mycroft at the moment. Well, it wasn’t like Nihal hadn’t seen him do more embarrassing things before - and Mycroft needed all reassurance that he could get.

So Greg got up and walked to Mycroft’s side of the table, then pushed his cup out of the way. He sat on the table in front of him, then held out his arms. Mycroft leaned forward, so that he was between Greg’s legs, and buried his face in Greg’s chest, arms around his torso, immediately grasping on the cloth of his suit, pulling them closer. Greg put his arms around him in turn and placed a kiss on the top of his head. His heart skipped a beat as Mycroft sighed contently and melted against him.

“So we’re definitely through,” Nihal said.

“I have no word for it yet, but I already know that I won’t let Mycroft go away again willingly. He’s stuck with me now. So, yeah. We’re through, Nihal. Sorry.”

Greg felt Mycroft tense in his arms and look up as he finished talking. His eyes were still swimming with tears, but his face had an open expression of wonder.

“Greg…” he whispered.

“Yes, darling?”

Mycroft shivered. He took a few attempts to speak, and when he did, it was so quiet that even Greg could barely hear it.

“I have never been in love, but my heart aches so much when I’m near you, that I think this might be…”

Greg slipped down from the table into Mycroft’s lap. Then he took Mycroft’s head in both hands and leaned in to kiss him. He immediately slipped his tongue into the other’s mouth, feeling the heat, relishing the soft gasp that it elicited. With every second they kissed, Mycroft held onto him closer, and squirmed desperately under him. Both rubbed against each other, their bodies close together. Greg was drunk on the small moans that Mycroft released. He felt him growing hard underneath him, and his own erection responded in kind. As they parted, both were panting slightly, staring into each other’s eyes with silent adoration.

“I have to revise my earlier statement. No invitation necessary. I’d be happy to just watch.”

Both heads whirled around to Nihal, who sat on the other side of the table, elbows on the tabletop, head resting on his hands, staring with shining eyes. He gave them a rather salacious grin.

Mycroft blushed heartily and hid his face in Greg’s shoulder. Greg just sighed.

“You didn’t want to leave us alone,” he said. “Now you have to live with the consequences.”

“If you’re going to give me such a delicious display every time, that really wasn’t much of a threat.”

Greg turned back towards Mycroft and placed his mouth next to his ear. He whispered as softly as he could. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I have a feeling you’re very easy to love, Mycroft Holmes.”

They sat in silence for a while, wrapped around each other, enjoying the warm closeness. Nihal refrained from speaking, just sipped his tea and stole a few glances at the unlikely couple and shook his head from time to time.

“You think this theory of his could really work?” he asked into the silence, after well over ten minutes. “Turn all wilds into lucids…”

“It worked with me.”

“Show me.”

“Have any spells for me, darling?” Greg asked Mycroft softly. “Some I don’t have to get up for?”

Mycroft smiled. “Trust me?”

“Always.”

He hummed a short series of notes, punctuated with a sound that was almost like him clearing his throat. “Can you do that? Think of flying.”

“Repeat it.”

Greg listened intently for a second and third time, then repeated the sounds. It took him two tries. Then he started floating upwards, away from Mycroft, who gave him a playful shove, but then held onto the cloth of his shirt, so he didn’t drift away completely. Greg beamed like a child, who just received a particularly large ice-cream.

“Incredible…” Nihal murmured. “How…?”

“A series of activating sounds that push the mage’s energy against the forces of gravity. The concluding note restrains the field to himself - otherwise I’d be flying with him,” Mycroft explained. “This spell requires a continuous use of a large amount of energy… but Greg’s reserves are vast. Even more so than mine. This is something I could also teach…”

He hummed the same combination and gently lifted from the chair, grasped Greg’s hand and came to a stop about two feet above the table. Greg stared into Mycroft’s eyes, which were shining with pride. But he still looked so sad. So far away. Greg knew he couldn‘t do anything about that right now, but he could distract him. He leaned in and whispered into Mycroft‘s ear.

“I want to fuck you like this. Floating in the air.”

“Greg!” Mycroft shouted, slightly scandalised.

“What?”

“I’d like that too,” Mycroft replied quietly, with a sheepish smile.

“I’m getting pretty jealous down here,” Nihal remarked. “What did Greg just suggest to you?”

“None of your business,” Greg replied.

“I admit this’ll take some getting used to--”

Footsteps interrupted the conversation. Greg and Mycroft slowly lowered themselves to the floor and landed on their feet. The same woman that had lead them earlier appeared in the doorway of the room.

“Come on. The council wants to speak to you again.”


	15. Chapter 15

“We’re inclined to believe you, if only because discarding this theory outright would be utterly foolish,” Irene said.

They were sitting on a few chairs, placed roughly in a circle, in the room Mycroft had previously been interviewed in. With the curtains drawn back, the room was immediately more homely, and their intimate circle made Mycroft feel more at ease. It was clear he had been preliminarily accepted by the group. With him in the room were Irene, Sherlock, Werner and Greg. He had a feeling that Greg would’ve normally not been admitted to such a discussion - well-liked as he was, he wasn’t a particularly high ranked member of the Irregulars. Mycroft didn’t know why that bothered him. Greg was putting his life on the line in the Yard, surely?

“We have to test it first, of course. Finding compatible mages might take a while,” Sherlock added.

“I believe that the capacity to store energy might play a large role in the frequency it needs to be activated. Mages with similar capacity might be close enough in frequency that it could still work, though not as quickly as with an exact match, like we have found by accident,” Mycroft explained and found Sherlock nodding along in agreement.

“Yes. I have come to a similar conclusion, after thinking about the matter from this new perspective. Frankly, I didn’t think it could be possible, but I can’t deny the evidence in front of my eyes,” Sherlock said and inclined his head in Greg’s general direction. “But right now we have more pressing matters to tend to…”

Greg’s eyes widened. “What could be more pressing than the salvation of my kind?”

Irene shifted in her seat. “The needs of an individual shouldn’t be placed above the needs of our whole group, but there’s something we thought impossible, until Mycroft arrived…”

“No need to talk around it, Irene,” Sherlock stated. “Our children have been taken by the Diogenes Club. We need to get them out before anything happens to them. It’s been almost three weeks. It might already be too late…”

“Your children?” Mycroft and Greg said at the same time.

“They’re not public knowledge in the Irregulars. Most of the members are kept in the dark about the others. It’s safer this way. We had hoped to keep our children out of it… because they weren’t born with lucid abilities, despite their parent’s lineage,” Irene explained. “Then their wild magic manifested - earlier than expected. They were barely seven years old last week, when the… unfortunate accident occurred.”

“What happened?” Greg asked.

“The three were on their way to a weekend with their aunt in the countryside--” Irene started, but Greg cut her off instantly.

“The triplets?” he exclaimed. “The ones that Chapman tracked down? They are your children?”

“Yes…” Irene breathed. “They are. They were lost to us until…”

“Tell me what I can do to help,” Mycroft said.

“You haven’t seen them?” Sherlock asked. “Three girls… triplets, as we said, with raven black hair and blue eyes. They’re called Lucy, Hazel and Lizette. They all go by the surname of Adler.”

“Adler?” Mycroft asked and looked at Irene.

“Yes. We thought her surname might draw less attention to the girls than the one that’s associated with both the bloodhound and his parents,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft’s heart ached as he heard his brother utter the title that he had earned through years of impeccable work of the worst kind, but he didn’t comment on it. He had a feeling that Sherlock had observed his reaction nonetheless - had said the name specifically to see Mycroft’s reaction.

“No, they’re not known to me. But I know the facility in which wild mages are held. I had no reason to visit it often, but I have done so in the past. You want me to help locate them. Get them out.”

“Yes,” Irene said.

“By now I’m probably on the list of suspicious people. I disappeared at the same time as Greg. My house lies in ruins. Those are pretty clear signs that I cut my ties on purpose. Alternatively they could think I was forced to leave, but even then they’re most certainly on the lookout for me. If the murderer of Dr. Said really is to be found within the ranks of the Diogenes Club itself, they probably put me on Greg’s trail on purpose, thinking I’d bring him in without question, just as I’ve done all these years…”

“Do you have a suspect?” Irene asked.

“I… do. Yes. Though it would be impossible to accuse him directly. And by now all traces of evidence in the room are probably destroyed. Only my memories remain… so we wouldn’t have any ground against him anyway. Who would you believe? A traitor, or the head of the Diogenes Club?”

“You think Sir Richard Chase himself is the murderer?” Irene asked.

“I’m almost certainly sure. It was either him or someone close to him, who he helped cover it up… and I hate myself for not seeing it sooner.”

Greg put a hand on Mycroft’s arm. “If you’d accused him right away, you wouldn’t be here right now. Do you think he would’ve let you go if you found out the truth?”

“I suppose not,” Mycroft said. “Still… There were only traces of three patterns in the room when I entered it. There was Dr. Said’s own, which could be discarded. Greg’s fake pattern had been applied to everything that was connected to the attack. Sir Richard’s pattern was everywhere - because he had frozen the time of the room. It was a convenient cover that distracted me from looking too close. The situation was simple enough for me to accept it. He fooled me. I… I should’ve been suspicious from the start. There was no telling how long the room had already been frozen. He told me it was only a few hours, when in reality he could’ve kept it like that for days.”

“Sir Richard is one of the few mages I’d think capable of faking a pattern so precisely,” Sherlock said.

“I even saw him drinking energy to keep up his magic supply artificially. He wouldn’t have needed that if he’d only frozen the room for a few hours. I was tired and made a huge mistake,” Mycroft said and sighed.

“The important thing is that you’re here now,” Greg said with warmth in his voice. “We’ll find a way, somehow. But I’m not important now. The triplets are.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft answered quietly, then looked back to Irene and Sherlock. “What do you propose?”

“Do you have anyone at the club, who could aid us?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled sadly. “I would like to say yes, but in reality I realised that most of them are probably glad to see me go. Not because of my talents, but because of… well, everything else.”

“You can’t tell me that you’ve been in the Diogenes for over fifteen years and not made a single friend,” Sherlock said and frowned.

“You make it sound pretty pathetic,” Mycroft stated. “But, yes. That’s what my life amounted to. Work over everything. I never knew anything else.”

Sherlock’s eyes were curiously sad as he looked at his brother. Almost like he pitied him. Mycroft couldn’t exactly say anything against that. His brother had a family and was high ranking member of a group, which was dedicated to save lives. What had Mycroft done during all these years? Work on his research and contribute knowledge to a cause that suppressed and killed wild mages in London and beyond.

“You’re telling the truth,” Sherlock said, slightly surprised. “You’re genuinely sad.”

“I have no more reason to lie,” Mycroft replied. “I will not lie to you. If you don’t take me in, I have nowhere else to go. I will most likely have to leave the country, should it come to that. It’s not a solution I covet, but the influence of the Diogenes Club reaches beyond London, so it’s the only option I have.”

Mycroft saw Greg nervously bite his lip. “I won’t let you go alone,” he said.

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that, shall we?” Mycroft said with a smile.

There was a contemplative bout of silence, then Sherlock started talking again. “The accident with Lucy, Hazel and Lizette was explosive. It killed their nanny, the driver, as well as the horse. The carriage was burnt beyond recognition, along with their clothes and all luggage. At first we thought they had simply burned up too… We now know that a passing doctor took the girls to his own residence and cared for them while they were unconscious. He didn’t know who they belonged to, so he had no means to contact us. Inspector Chapman made the connections faster than any of us and handed the girls over to the Diogenes Club.”

“I can draw up a plan of the facility, from what I remember, and also their schedule as far as I know it… which, frankly is not much,” Mycroft said. “How do you propose we get them out?”

“Covertly. I am the one infusing the relics that Werner builds for us with the magic that helps hide a wild mage. They provide patterns that overlay your own,” Sherlock stated. “We go in disguise, pattern masked. We get the girls out.”

“That’s a mad plan,” Mycroft said.

“It’s the only one we have, that has even a small chance of success. We would’ve attempted it before, but that would’ve been suicide. We need--”

“Information about the fighting magic and strength of the guards. Yes,” Mycroft cut Irene off. “I have designed most of their spells. I can tell you what to expect - and how to disarm them.”

There was a wild gleam in Sherlock’s eyes. Mycroft wondered what it was like to lose someone so close. He glanced at Greg. The man was already so dear to him, that the mere thought crushed his heart. How could Sherlock function like that? He saw him exchange a loving, supportive gaze with Irene. He had feared that his little brother would grow up to become like him - all reports he had read about the man had been indicative of a great talent for magic, with all the drawback that this brought with it. But he had found a family. And love. It had turned him into something quite remarkable. Mycroft knew that already.

“I will do everything I can to support the rescue. They are… family,” Mycroft said quietly, but with a steely resolve in his voice. “Give me a few hours and I will have compiled the information for you to share. About everything important that I know.”

“Thank you, brother,” Sherlock responded. His voice carried a warmth that hadn’t been there before. Mycroft could only nod, his throat closing up with rising emotion.


	16. Chapter 16

Watching Mycroft work was a treat for every mage who aspired to use their talents most efficiently. He had been given a table in a small room filled with books and scrolls. The table was stacked with paper, ink and several pens - and Mycroft used three of them at once.

He was bent over the paper, completely in his own world. No one would’ve dared interrupt him. While he drew a plan of the wild mage facility and its surroundings by hand on a large sheet, not all his attention was on the task. Seemingly from his back, several red ribbons emerged, which all worked independently. One held a pen and recorded the frequency theory on paper. Another wrote down a list of attack and defense magic, as well the rest of the skills most guards at the Diogenes had. Several other ribbons shifted paper around, rearranged notes on the table. One even took care of refilling the water glass and handing it to Mycroft to take a sip now and then.

The sheer amount of fine magic energy manipulation and concentration was an inhuman feat. Several people stopped by the chamber, watching Mycroft in awe from the sideline, not daring to talk to him. They spoke in hushed tones, making comments about the bloodhound, but most were simply there to admire his talent.

Greg sat on a chair near Mycroft, and was basically invisible to him while he worked. It had gone on for a few hours already, but Greg had refused to wait anywhere else. He had a feeling that it would be bad to leave the man alone. Mycroft frantically recorded as much knowledge and insider information as he could, as fast as was possible. In what seemed like no time at all, he had covered over a hundred sheets with vital clues for the Irregulars. Greg watched two ribbons clean the nib of a pen, before it was carefully dipped into ink to continue writing, all while the other ribbons and Mycroft’s own hands kept going.

He was in absolute awe. Greg had known that Mycroft was indeed very talented, but now he knew that his skill at magic manipulation was probably unrivaled in the country, if not in the world. With mere hums and whistling noises, he made the ribbons perform several tasks at once, which Greg wouldn’t be able to coordinate with his own hands.

It was after the fifth hour, when Mycroft suddenly stopped moving. He put down his pen and let the ribbons lower their objects gently to the table, before they fizzed out into nothingness. Mycroft looked around to see Greg sitting behind him and gave him a tired smile.

“I think this is it, for now. The council should be able to formulate a plan with this information,” Mycroft said. “And even if I’m caught now, this will still be able to help everyone.”

“You’re amazing,” Greg said and stood up. He walked the few steps over to Mycroft and wrapped his arms around the man, pressed his face to Greg’s chest. Mycroft leaned against him with closed eyes, a blissed out, but tired smile on his face. “That was… absolutely amazing. How do you do it? Maintain such a detailed manipulation with so many different, simultaneous movements.”

“Years of practice,” Mycroft answered, eyes still closed. “I make it look easy because I’ve done it countless times. Of course it would be difficult for anyone to attempt all of this, which took me years to master, at once. Also my pattern is very similar to the ribbons, which makes it easier to manipulate. If you find a way to incorporate the natural shape of your pattern, the magic flows willingly.”

“But writing with three hands… I can’t even imagine.”

“There are more complicated things,” Mycroft admitted. “But it isn’t the easiest task.”

“Do you need a rest now?” Greg asked. “We have a temporary quarter. Unfortunately it’ll be down here, underground.”

“As long as you’re safe, I don’t mind where we are,” Mycroft said and pressed a kiss to Greg’s chest. Greg held him closer in response. “You’re quickly becoming an indispensable part of my life, Greg… not only because I’m now with the Irregulars. I felt much more at ease with you in the room. Thank you for staying.”

“You’re welcome, darling,” Greg said and kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “For the record… I don’t think I could let you go, even if I tried.”

“We’re quite a mismatched pair.”

“I don’t care what we are. I see a gentle and lonely man, who wants to do the right thing and is willing to sacrifice his life for a good cause. And I want to support you… be by your side.”

“You’re too good to be true,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I fear many of the Irregulars will not see it that way… and they’re completely in the right.”

Greg shook his head. “No one can erase the past. But we can learn from it. Try to do better.”

“Greg, I can never make up for what I’ve done, no matter how little blame rests on myself. Everyone always has a choice. I knew what I was doing and refused to admit it for my own protection. I had never been confronted with the reality of my actions until I stopped and talked to you.”

Greg took a deep breath and leaned down to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “That was the moment, in which you had to decide. Had you stayed, I would condemn you. But you chose not to. You chose to help me. You let me go. You ended the only reality you had all your life without hesitation. There was no alternative before, but you grasped the chance with both hands when it was offered to you.”

“I’m a despicable man,” Mycroft said with a sad smile, and Greg heard his own words echoed in the sentence.

“You’re an amazing man and I like you very much.”

“I can’t believe that yet. I want to, but I can’t,” Mycroft whispered.

“Come on, let me show you then.”

Mycroft stood up willingly when Greg dragged him to his feet. He clutched his hand so tightly, it seemed like he was afraid Greg would disappear. With one look back at the desk, and the ordered paper, he followed Greg from the room. The person behind the door showed them to another, small chamber, which was barely large enough to fit a bed and a small table on a flimsy carpet. The walls were high, and covered in additional carpets, so the cold of the underground wouldn’t seep in. It was already night, and Greg asked the man for them to not be disturbed until the morning. He figured that Mycroft’s records would give the others enough distraction in the meantime. Then he locked the door behind them.

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, looking lost, staring at the wall in front of him. He seemed tired, but still distracted. You could almost see the thoughts in his head still turning - everything that had happened that day was being sorted and filed away. Greg sat next to him on the bed and cautiously touched his hand. Mycroft turned to him immediately, a slight smile on him, but his body was still tense. Greg leaned in and their lips met in a gentle kiss. Mycroft softened against him, let out a sigh of relief. He turned towards Greg instinctively, his hands moving towards the other man, settling on his hips. Greg smiled against Mycroft’s lips and mirrored the movement.

As they parted, Mycroft’s eyes were soft and unfocused and already a bit of tension had drained from his body. He looked at Greg as if he couldn’t believe he was there.

“Hold me, please,” Mycroft breathed. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Greg ached for this impossible man, and somewhere in his heart he knew I would never leave him alone again. He brought both hands on Mycroft’s shoulders and gently pushed him down onto the bed. He leaned over him, traced a finger down his cheek, brought their lips so close together, that he could feel Mycroft’s breath on his skin. “I want to make love to you. Just us, no frequency magic. I want to feel you as you are. All of you.”

Mycroft took in a deep breath, which almost sounded like a sob. He brought his hands to Greg’s back, under his jacket and fisted the cloth of his shirt. “Yes. Please. Please… Oh god… Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone…”

“Darling…” Greg whispered, his voice broken. “Trust me. I won’t leave you.”

Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s shoulder and nodded, pulling him closer. Then Greg hummed a combination of notes, which he had remembered from earlier, and they both started gently floating up into the air. Mycroft’s delighted and surprised laugh spread through his body and filled Greg up with joy. The magic seemed to envelop them. Greg felt the energy flow through his body, felt it reach out. The notes felt right on his tongue. This was what it had always been supposed to feel like. No anxiety, no ball of uncontrolled magic in his chest. Just joy.

“Thank you. Thank you for giving me this… new life,” Greg said as he hugged Mycroft closer, peppering his neck with small kisses, as they turned gently in the air, Mycroft now on top of him. “I’ve never felt so free.”

“Then this is a new beginning for both of us.”

Mycroft gasped as Greg bit down on his neck, a bolt of arousal shooting through him. He arched against Greg, who met his body with enthusiasm. They were now at least five feet above the bed, turning slowly with every movement. Greg grinned at Mycroft as he pulled at his own jacket, and let the garment fall to the bedding below them. They slowly removed each others clothes, every item falling belong like leaves from a trees. It was playful and just a bit ridiculous, so that by the time they were naked, both were laughing, faces open with joy. Greg let the last item fall below with a wink and Mycroft almost turned in the air with a loud laugh.

They reached for each other and pulled themselves together again, bodies clashing in the air. Greg had never experienced anything like it. The only thing he could feel was Mycroft’s hot skin against his, contrasting against the cool air. There was nothing but that gorgeous man pressing against him, eagerly returning his kisses, fingers roaming over his skin tirelessly. He stared at Mycroft in wonder, his heart already so full of the man, he didn’t know how anyone else would ever find a place in there again.

Then an idea fell into his head and while he felt a tad embarrassed to even suggest it, he was determined to get Mycroft’s thoughts as far away from all the bad things that had happened, as was possible that night. He traced his fingers down Mycroft’s chest, his voice a low murmur.

“So… those ribbons you used to work. You also used them to attack Nihal…”

“A technique I developed just for myself,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes, I figured that. And… oh god, I feel bad just for asking… but can you use them for anything else?”

Mycroft blushed with his entire body. Apparently he didn’t even have to ask what Greg meant, which showed quite clearly that he had been creative in the past. Mycroft closed his eyes, put both hands over his face. Greg grinned and pulled him closer. “Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, but you don’t want to.”

Mycroft breathed. “I do… want to.”

Greg shivered with excitement. “I didn’t think anyone could have a more dirty mind than me, but I might have found my match…”

“Don’t laugh, please…”

“I would never,” Greg said and stroked Mycroft’s sides soothingly. 

The motion seemed not only to settle, but also to excite Mycroft, as he breathed faster, but then Greg found out that it wasn’t only his actions that elicited the reaction. Suddenly he felt a velvety touch on his back, stroking slowly along his skin and his body broke out in goosebumps at the realisation of what was happening. The mere thought made him let out a deep moan, his cock filling out, pushing against Mycroft, who was now looking at him with eyes that had lost all embarrassment, and were shining with a fire that Greg wished he could keep alive forever.

He could see several ribbons wrapping around Mycroft, reaching out to him. They felt amazing on his skin, buzzing with energy, impossibly soft. They wrapped around both of them, pressing them together, and Mycroft put his mouth next to Greg’s ear.

“I… I use them when I’m alone… to pleasure myself…”

Greg’s body shivered as he felt the velvet travel along his skin, wrapping around both their erections, enveloping them in a soft embrace, moving slowly up and and down. His body convulsed at the sensation, gasping into Mycroft’s neck, pressing closer. He found Mycroft’s hands and entwined their fingers, holding them up above his head, biting into the skin of his neck, as they slowly turned in the air, caressed by gentle energy.

“You’re full of surprises,” Greg said with a laugh. “I love the way your mind works.”

Mycroft let out a sigh and smiled against Greg’s skin. His body relaxed, and Greg felt the ribbons pull them apart slightly, at first reluctant to let that happen, but then he saw Mycroft’s body in full, stretched out under him, red threads of magic running across his skin, wrapping around his arms, basically securing them in place over his head. Mycroft arched into the restraints, his cock upright and leaking. Greg had never seen anything quite as beautiful.

Then he felt a motion on himself again, stroking him with more force, and he moaned low, falling forward. “Use me,” he breathed. “Just use me.”

Mycroft didn’t have to be told twice. Greg felt the force on his body as he was gripped and pushed forward, cock lining up with Mycroft and then pushing in. He didn’t move a muscle, just relished the heat, this single point of contact, that incredible sensation the only thing he could feel. Mycroft was moaning, almost shouting, twisting in the air with no purchase, squirming. When Greg was fully seated, he felt the ribbons stoke along his sides, as if they were Mycroft’s hands, loving and gentle. He opened his eyes to see the man look up at him, heat the only thing left in his gaze. No embarrassment, no shame. Just want.

They flipped over in the air, Greg now on his back, Mycroft above him, hands tied behind his back, and then he started moving above him, gliding in and out, breathing hard. Greg was moved about, pushed and pulled, his body awash in sensation, every touch electric. He felt magic flow over and through him, the ribbons caressing his skin like a lover. As they brushed over his nipples and he let out a sharp gasp, they returned almost immediately, teasing, stroking. His eyes filled with tears. There was too much input. Every nerve in his body was singing. He couldn’t…

“Mycroft,” he managed to breathe. “I can’t… I…”

“Come in me,” Mycroft responded. “Oh god, Greg… please…”

Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft above him, a sheen of sweat on his skin, cock being stroked, and he arched upwards at the sight, coming deep and hard, screaming his pleasure. He felt his whole body go limp, the levitating magic fading, but he was caught gently by Mycroft’s own magic. Mycroft had watched him in rapt adoration, but now had his head thrown back, stroking himself frantically.

“Fuck…” he almost choked on his words as the orgasm ripped through him, painting Greg’s chest, drops falling down to the ground where they missed him.

Most of the ribbons disappeared immediately, but there were still a few, pulling Greg closer, so that they came to rest against each other, still in the air. Ever so gently, they sank down into the bed, exhausted, overwhelmed, happy. Mycroft could barely keep his eyes open, and as they were safely back in the grasp of gravity, his head fell to the side and he immediately fell asleep.

Greg longed to stay awake and enjoy the feeling of this incredible mage in his arms, but the exhaustion caught up to him as well, and with his head resting on Mycroft’s chest, he followed him into the arms of Morpheus.


	17. Chapter 17

When Greg woke up, his first thought was that it was still dark. Then he remembered that they were still underground, so there was no way to check the time by judging the light. The gaslamp, which had illuminated the small room before, had apparently gone out, and everything was incredibly dark. He could see practically nothing in the absolute darkness - there wasn’t even a sliver of light from underneath the door. But he could feel.

He felt Mycroft’s arms around him, the heat of his body, the softness of his skin. His head was still resting on Mycroft’s chest, their legs entwined. He sighed happily and turned his head to press a kiss to the skin under his cheek, then tightened his own arms around Mycroft’s torso. The man underneath him was completely passed out. No wonder. It had been a long, stressful day. The mending spell he had cast on Greg, the flight from his home, the long interview with the council, the hours spent recording his knowledge… and then. Greg blushed just thinking about what they had done. Never, in all his years, had he thought such a thing possible. The weightlessness… those ribbons. His skin broke out in goosebumps, just thinking about it. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

Greg tried to remember the sound for light, and after a few tries, a ball of orange fire bloomed in his hand. He let it float up gently, about four feet above his head. As he looked up, he saw Mycroft smile down at him, still sleepy, but also looking incredibly proud.

“You’re taking to magic like a natural…” Mycroft said, his voice still rough from sleep. “I clearly need to teach you more spells. You can even mimic my way of casting.”

“When I utter the sounds, I know which one is right by the feeling spreading through my body,” Greg said. “It feels… right, somehow.”

“Mhmm. That’s exactly it. You’re more talented than I could’ve imagined. It would’ve been an absolute waste of a magnificent mage if you remained wild.”

Greg blushed under Mycroft’s praise and lowered his head again, so it lay on Mycroft’s shoulder. He traced idle patterns on Mycroft’s skin with his fingers, relishing in the way their naked bodies were still pressed together.

“All thanks to you.”

“Accidentally,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Maybe. But you were quick-minded enough to analyse the situation and help me. Thank you.”

“I feel like I’m the one, who has been helped,” Mycroft said quietly. “And I will do my best to make amends.”

Greg tensed briefly. “You’re going to accompany them to the rescue,” he stated.

“Yes. I’m the one with the most knowledge about the club and their proceedings. They will need me on the ground, so I can improvise in a tough situation.”

“I don’t want you to go. I can’t imagine what they’ll do to you if you’re captured…” Greg said and hugged Mycroft closer. “I barely got you. I can’t lose you again.”

Mycroft kissed Greg’s head, hugged him closer in turn.

“Concealing my pattern is second nature to me. Your relic has been able to fool Sir Richard once already. If Sherlock equips me with a similar one, they won’t be able to tell it’s me. I have to do it. I don’t know them, but they’re my family. I never thought I’d ever…” Mycroft trailed off, his voice slightly broken.

Greg moved up a bit and looked into Mycroft’s eyes. He leaned forward and met Mycroft’s lips in a kiss that was loving, but also forceful, and left Mycroft pleading for more as they parted.

“I know you have to. But remember what you’d leave behind, alright?”

“Greg, you’re my light. I will always find back to you.”

They cuddled closer, hands stroking exposed skin, bestowed countless kisses on each other’s body. It was gentle and unhurried. It was like they had known each other for a very long time. It just felt right.

Then there was a knock on the door. Mycroft mumbled something, and the air gave off a faint pop.

“You didn’t…”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft said. “It was only a sound barrier that blocked anything from the inside to the outside - not the other way around. I didn’t want anyone to hear us.”

“And you maintained it through the night?”

“I imbued the spell with enough energy to continue without my maintenance for a few hours, yes.”

The knock came again, a bit more forceful. Greg pulled the blanket over both of them, and with a last grin to Mycroft called on whoever was in front of the door. It opened to reveal Sherlock, who walked into the room without even acknowledging the scene in front of him. There were clothes everywhere on the floor and bed, and both men seemed very ruffled. Then again, they had been given only one room… 

“Your records will aid us for decades, Mycroft. You have my - all of our - sincere thanks.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s face go from surprise to joy to a sad smile and grasped his hand under the blanket.

“It’s the least I could do.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously, his face betraying no emotion he was feeling.

“We will go to the Diogenes facility today. I have prepared the disguises and the relics. We’re meeting in ten minutes to discuss the plan, then we’re moving into place. Our approach has to be done delicately.”

“Already?” Greg said.

“Yes. Our girls have been in the facility for about a week. I can’t imagine…”

“We’re going,” Mycroft said immediately. “I will support you however I can. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave the room, but not without eyeing Greg with a strange look. When the door closed, Mycroft pushed back the blanket and stood up, gesturing for Greg to stand next to him, who did so without asking. Mycroft hummed a few tones and let his hand glide down Greg’s chest. A curious, tingling sensation washed over Greg’s body from the tips of his hair, down to his toes. It was cold where it went, leaving skin that felt red and sensitive for a few moments. Then Greg’s clothes floated upwards, shook themselves a few times and landed in his arms, feeling as crisp as if they’d just been washed and ironed.

“No wonder the other inspector’s always look so fresh, if you can clean yourself and your clothes within seconds…” Greg said with a sigh, as he watched Mycroft’s clothes turn and arrive in his arms. “And then there’s me, always sweaty…”

“I like you sweaty,” Mycroft said with a smile and leaned in to steal a kiss.

Greg let the clothes fall to the floor and reached for Mycroft with both hands, bringing them together again for a desperate kiss. His heart ached fiercely, fear suddenly overwriting joy, his hands roamed Mycroft’s body as if he wanted to learn it by heart.

“Don’t go…” he whispered against Mycroft’s lips. “You know best how ruthless the Diogenes agents are.”

“I have to.”

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ve only known you for a few days, but I think I love you,” Greg said, his eyes filling with tears. “I love you and I don’t want you to leave me.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched and he threw his arms around Greg, pulled him closer, so that Greg’s head rested on his shoulder. He stroked his hair soothingly, pressed gentle kisses to his head. Despite Mycroft being utterly silent, Greg felt tears soak into his hair and it made him feel like the floor had been pulled away under his feet.

“Thank you, Greg,” Mycroft whispered. “Thank you for loving someone like me.”

“I… I…” Greg attempted to say, but his voice was caught off by his own sobs, as he clung to Mycroft, irrationally, but unable to stop himself.

“Sshhh, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I have to do this. I have to help. And afterwards I will come back to you, and we’ll both go into hiding together, somewhere no one will ever find us. I promise,” Mycroft said, his voice sounding like it was an incredible effort to keep it level. “And I know that because I love you too. You fill me with so much wonder and joy. I will always find back to you.”

“Don’t go…” Greg whispered weakly, knowing it was merely a token protest.

Mycroft kissed his head once more, then detached himself from Greg, who could only stand there and see it happen. Greg watched him dress quickly and meticulously, watched the soft man being covered in harsh clothes, which transformed all his warmth into cold calculation. His heart almost gave out.

Finally, Mycroft stepped up to him again and put a hand under his chin, raised his head. They shared a long, gentle kiss, which both soothed Greg’s nerves and made his anxiety flare up in the worst way.

“I love you,” Mycroft said.

“That sounds like a goodbye,” Greg said, his eyes filled with tears.

“I will see you again tomorrow.”

Greg could only nod. He hummed in their frequency and felt both of their patterns connect briefly. The sheer depth of Mycroft’s emotion hit him like a hammer. He felt his heart fill up with love as the tendrils of Mycroft’s pattern wrapped around him, just as the smoke of his own pattern enveloped Mycroft’s body. They stayed like this for only a minute, but it was enough.

“I love you,” Greg said once more to the closed door, to the empty space, where Mycroft had been only seconds before.


	18. Chapter 18

Mycroft clutched the amulet in his right hand. The relic he had been given was both powerful and elegant. He hadn’t been surprised to find out that Werner was the one, who fashioned the items out of silver and precious stones, but he had been intrigued by the way Sherlock had explained that different stones were conductive to different fake patterns. Sherlock was also the one imbuing the relics with the required spells, so that they needed only a mage of the same pattern colour to replenish the energy in it from time to time.

His pattern was now of a a pale green, feathery and light. It felt wrong. His own pattern struggled underneath, but he kept his energy level and focused. The two people accompanying him were similarly disguised. Sherlock himself was joining the mission, his bright red masked by a deep blue. Nihal had volunteered, his orange pattern masked by a pretty sky-blue. All unthreatening colours, common in the guards that the Diogenes placed at the facility.

They had talked through the plan while Mycroft was fitted with his relic, and after they had decided on an angle of approach, took a cab, which would take them to a place, a few minutes away from the wild mage building. It was - like the cemetery, in which the Irregulars hid in - on the outskirts of the city, only further east, along the Thames, settled between larger estates and farmland, with some sort of privacy. As they rattled along the road, all three of them were silent, concentrated. There would be much to discuss between them after the mission was over, but for now they had to keep the wits together, so it didn’t turn into a suicide mission instead.

“It’s the low, red brick building, almost hidden inside that little clump of trees. It looks almost like a factory,” Mycroft pointed out, as the roof of the facility came into view on the horizon.

The other two nodded, just as the cab stopped. They had reached the church in the small village, which they had asked the cabbie to transport them to. A few coins changed hands and the driver tipped his hat, before he drove off into the town centre, no doubt looking for passengers to take back to London. Mycroft took a deep breath. The air on this early autumn day was warm, and the trees around them glowed in brilliant tones of red. The road was busy, with many people walking about and carriages hauling produce towards the city. Several small children walked around, praising the nuts they were selling.

Sherlock nodded at the other two and inclined his head into the direction of the facility. It was only a short walk from here, no longer than twenty minutes. The fell into step next to each other, walking silently. Their clothes could be described as workman attire, coarse and just on the edge of being dirty. Their shoes were worn and the caps lay flat on their heads. With an additional spell to make their features hazy in a way that no one would be able to consciously remember or place them, they were adequately disguised… at least for now. Mycroft was very far away from the usual image he presented. The very idea of slipping into the clothes he was wearing had seemed appalling. Still, it was but a small sacrifice for the good he could do.

As they reached the trees around the facility, they immediately hid in the thicket next to the road. It was the one that the workers of the Diogenes took to reach the place from the surrounding villages. The plan was simple. As soon as someone would pass along, they’d attack him and steal his uniform. It was the oldest plan in the book, but it had proven a successful strategy so many times, there really wasn’t any need to improvise on it.

Two hours - and a lot of patience - later, the three were clad in more or less fitting uniforms. The guards had been knocked out with magic and a relic had been left on their person to keep them in deep sleep for at least a day, or until someone removed it. Sherlock seemed to be very adept at crafting relics for these specific purposes, and Mycroft felt oddly proud of his brother.

“Remember: Most wilds are in the rooms on the first and second floor. The rooms are barred, like prison cells. There will be guards, but inside the building itself the security is not as tight as at the entrances,” Mycroft said in a low whisper as he buttoned up the Diogenes uniform. He didn’t tell anyone that the colours made him feel strangely nostalgic. “Three people walking around together will be suspicious, so we’ll split up to cover more ground.”

“Our relics are linked. If you concentrate on making it light up, the other two will do so as well. The one who found the three will remain near the door, the others will look for him,” Sherlock added. “Understood?”

Mycroft and Nihal nodded. They shared a last, nervous glance. At least, if they were separated, they could only ever apprehend one of them. Mycroft didn’t think any of the others would rat the rest out. No, it was something else that made him feel anxious and his heart ache. It was the fact that both he and Nihal had promised Sherlock that either of them would try to get the triplets out, no matter if the others were caught. Especially if they were revealed, time would be of the essence. The relic would glow red, and that would be the signal to leave.

“We will succeed, brother mine,” Mycroft said and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I will do everything in my power to reunite your family.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Our family.”

Mycroft swallowed, briefly at a loss for words. Then he nodded. They turned towards the facility and started walking.

\--

Getting into the building was no challenge at all. Applying the tried and tested principle of ‘walking as if it was your god-given right to do so’ worked wonders. They nodded to the guards at the door, who didn’t even look at the three of them twice. Well, getting in was one thing. Getting out with three girls in tow was another. This was why they were three people. If push came to shove, each of them could carry one girl out.

The facility wasn’t much to look at from the inside. It was basically a prison, and beyond the offices for the managing staff, it was functional at best. The low building was made of long corridors with countless doors, looking very much like cells. Only that everything was very quiet. No inmate was shouting, no guard was talking loudly. One could’ve almost called the silence reverent, but the atmosphere was so depressing that the description really didn’t apply.

“See you on the other side,” Nihal murmured and left them quickly, walking up the stairs to the second floor. Sherlock turned and left shortly after, taking one of the corridors. Mycroft took a deep breath and continued down another on his own.

He walked slowly past the doors, sometimes passing one person, or another, but none of them seemed to care much for his presence. With his uniform and the measured steps, he looked very much the part of a patrolling officer, inspecting the premise. One is always careful not to catch the eye of a supervisor, no matter in what circumstance. As he progressed through the corridor, he took time to look into the various rooms. They were all long and narrow, mostly contained one or two beds, and were illuminated sparsely. What was the most defining feature on some of them, though, was an iron cage, positioned over the bed, and under each of them, a person was lying still, as if they were sleeping. Some turned about, but none seemed conscious.

Mycroft changed the filter on his eyes many times, trying to spy anything of note, but all he could perceive was a nervous, anxious ball of magic energy inside the wild mage’s chests, some stronger, some weaker. But with the ones under the iron cages, it was as if there was no magic at all. A strange idea slipped into his mind and just the implications made him shiver. There was no time to contemplate this now. They had to find the triplets.

As he had progressed through roughly two third of the corridor, the relic in his pocket started to glow in a white light. He quickly pushed it deeper, as to not alert anyone else, and turned around. One of the others had found the girls! He walked as fast as he dared, and met up with Sherlock at the place they had separated earlier. Both nodded into the direction of the stairs and walked up one after the other. So Nihal had spotted them.

He was standing in front of a door at the end of a broader hallway on the second floor, as if he was guarding it. There were a few other people about, pushing carts with food through the building, but apart from that the space was empty and quiet. Mycroft and Sherlock fell into meaningless, whispered small talk as they walked on. The more relaxed they seemed, the more they’d fade into the background of everyone else’s perception. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached the door and greeted Nihal like they’d just met by chance. Sherlock looked into the room and by the way his face grew pale, Mycroft knew they had found the right place. He glanced over himself.

The room was bigger than most on the first floor, and accommodated three beds. On each of them, a sleeping girl was lying under a blanket. There were three iron cages above them. Neither seemed to have any wild magic left in them, but they weren’t dead either. Just very, very weak. He heard Sherlock swallow and reach for the door. It opened without problem. But instead of being surprised about this development, Sherlock simply entered and the other two slipped into room behind him. Nihal remained at the door, while Mycroft reached for Sherlock’s hand to hold him back.

“We need to know what these do before we can touch them,” he whispered and pointed at the cages. Now he could see that they were connected to a wire that disappeared into a cupboard on the other side of the room. He nodded towards it and Sherlock opened the doors. What they found confirmed Mycroft’s theory in the worst way.

“They’re siphoning the wild magic from their bodies. These cages are relics!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Relics designed to extract wild energy!”

Mycroft stared at the blue liquid, which dripped from an amethyst, which was sitting on the end of the wire. The blue liquid, which was glowing in the semi-darkness of the room and looked almost like…

“The Diogenes distributes potions to their members, which efficiently replenish magic energy. They look exactly like that. They claim the energy is collected from nature, but…”

“Damn them!” Sherlock shouted. “They’re exploiting lives to have a more comfortable supply of magic for themselves! People are getting killed in here!”

Mycroft felt acid rise in his throat. The night he had seen Sir Richard drink the blue potion to replenish his energy, which he had expended on freezing the time in Dr. Said’s room, he had been drinking… Oh god. Mycroft felt incredibly sick. The fact that he had never once touched the potions himself, didn’t make it any better. He had been blessed with large reserves of magic energy naturally. If he hadn’t… he didn’t even want to think about it. Did everyone in the Diogenes know about this? Or did they keep it quiet? Mycroft thought about the amount of people working in this building. Were they all sworn to silence? What kind of operation did the Diogenes run here? How long had it been going on?

Sherlock hissed in pain. Mycroft turned around to see him hold his hand, where he had attempted to move the cage above one of his girls. Immediately he changed the filter to observe where the relic had been imbued with magic… where the mage had touched it to infuse it with the spell. It was subtle, but if you could pinpoint the location, you could extract the spell again. Mycroft’s eyes were some of the sharpest in existence when it came to spot these details. So it took him only minutes to deactivate the relics, while being looked on with a nervous, but grateful brother.

The girls were well and truly passed out. There was not a flicker of magic left in them. The relics must’ve worked tirelessly, drawing every bit out before it could even settle in their bodies. The process had been invasive. Mycroft was sure they wouldn’t have held out even one or two more days. The three looked smaller than their age of seven years would suggest, and the hair that had supposedly been raven-black, was now streaked with grey. He felt his eyes fill with tears, but blinked them away. They weren’t dead yet and he would assure they wouldn’t die that day.

Sherlock could easily fit two of them in his arms, so he took Lucy and Lizette, and Nihal took Hazel. They agreed that Mycroft would be the best to defend them, if it came to that, because he knew the magic of the guards best. Mycroft exited first, looking up and down the corridor, but the coast was clear so far. Best case, he would only have to take care of the two guards at the door. It almost felt too easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Just as he turned the corner to see if the guards were still there, he heard Nihal scream behind him. Mycroft could see him being pressed to the floor by some Diogenes workers, one of which was dragging Hazel away, who was still blissfully unconscious.

“Unhand her!” Sherlock screamed, his hands full of precious cargo. 

Mycroft sprinted into their direction, flinging a spell before anyone could even register him. His threads broke through the cover of the relic and pushed the workers off Nihal, who rolled away to the side as soon as he was free, his hands crackling with lightning, but obviously reluctant to cast while Hazel was still in the line of fire.

“Who are you?” one of the workers shouted.

“None of your fucking business,” Nihal replied and rose to his feet. “Give back the girl!”

He was pushed over again by a strong wind, making him crash against the wall. Sherlock turned around, so that his girls wouldn’t be hit by the force. He looked at Nihal with pleading eyes, then ran towards Mycroft, so he could hide behind him. Mycroft’s eyes sparkled with icy fury and a red mist started to fill the air around him.

“You’ll hand her over, or you all die,” he said in a low voice.

“She’s worth much more to you than she is to us,” a voice that was very familiar to Mycroft rang out loud and clear in the corridor. “I’ll have her killed in a heartbeat.”

“Sir Richard…” Mycroft hissed, just as the man came into view behind the worker, who was holding Hazel’s body limp in his grasp.

“I was counting on you to show up here eventually, but I didn’t think your brother would convince you quite so soon. You’re awfully transparent. Always so emotional,” Sir Richard said and shook his head. “We should’ve properly contained you years ago. A rogue element, is what you are.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. He could’ve cleared the board with just the guards here. But Sir Richard was a formidable opponent. If they clashed, most everyone else around them would be seriously hurt. He cared about that. Sir Richard clearly didn’t.

“Let her go and we will leave.”

“And that benefits me how?”

“I won’t make the whole building collapse,” Mycroft replied.

“You would never,” Sir Richard said with a laugh. “Stop with your empty threats. You’ve never killed a single person in your whole life, and I’m supposed to believe you’ll start with dozens of innocents?”

“I--”

“Stop it, Mycroft. You’ve lost. But because I’m generous, and I’d much rather have you under control, I’m giving you a deal. You come back to the Diogenes, and we’ll give this poor excuse of a wild mage back to your brother. I don’t even know why he’d want her, if he has two identical copies of the girl already, but I don’t have to understand it to make it work for me.”

“I will see them walk out of here unharmed.”

“You have my word.”

Sherlock growled behind Mycroft. “You can’t trust him.”

“He’s not lying,” Mycroft whispered. “I can always tell when someone is lying.”

“Don’t do it,” Nihal implored him. “Think of Greg…”

Mycroft’s eyes filled with tears as the reality of this decision hit him. His heart felt like it was breaking. The warmth he had carried with him deserted his body. He thought of Greg raging against the injustice.

“Tell him I’m sorry I have to break my promise. Tell him I love him.”

Mycroft walked over to Sir Richard’s side, red mist dissipating with every step. He took Hazel from the worker’s arms and went to hand her over to Nihal. With a deep sigh he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Nihal’s lips.

“Give that to him from me, will you? Then you tell him… tell him to forget me. And be good to him. He deserves nothing less.”

As he watched the group of five flee from the building, his heart had already closed itself off, and a deep sadness had settled into Mycroft’s bones. He felt Sir Richard lay and hand on his shoulders and looked over to him to see the most self-satisfied smile he had ever witnessed.

“Come on. I’m sure we have much to discuss.”


	19. Chapter 19

When Mycroft opened his eyes for the first time, his body felt as weak as it had never felt before. He could barely blink in the twilight, much less move a muscle. Everything hurt. Fiercely. What he could feel was the bed underneath him, and the cage that was placed above. Of course they had placed him under one of these. He was too dangerous to leave in a simple cell, even with barriers. He was the one who had designed most of the security measures. Most everything except these dreadful relics.

He lacked even the strength to groan. His breathing was shallow. But then he felt a source of warmth inside his chest. Not all magic had deserted him yet. He channeled what he could into a mending spell, but as it took hold, it hurt even more, and a gasp escaped him at last. Yet he had to bear it.

“We’ll have none of that,” Mycroft heard a voice say and the next thing he knew was darkness.

\--

When Mycroft opened his eyes for the second time, he felt devoid of any and all magic. It was an incredibly alien feeling, which filled him with absolute dread. It felt like his arms had been cut off. Like he was missing one of his senses. Spells came so naturally to him, for a few seconds, he didn’t even know how to proceed. He tried to hum a few notes to support his movement, but all it did was induce an instantaneous headache. With a curse on his dry lips, he managed to sit up and look around the room.

It looked very much like the cell they had saved the triplets from, only it was empty except for the bed, the cage and a table, on which a large vessel was filling up with magic. His magic. Mycroft growled at the empty air and attempted to touch the bars of the cage. It felt like he was touching burning metal, even though on close inspection, his fingers didn’t have any visible blemishes. Still, it was too much for his head. With a sharp bolt of pain, he passed out again.

\--

The third time, Mycroft wished he’d just kept sleeping. As he finally sank back into oblivion, he was bleeding from countless small wounds, his skin burned, his clothes ripped. He resolved not to wake again. He wouldn’t tell them anything, anyway. Why prolong his suffering? But without magic… what could he really do?

\--

It was dark when he woke for a fourth time. He immediately realised that there was someone in the room with him. Gentle hands touched the skin, where his wounds lay and left healed skin in their wake. Mycroft wanted to draw away from the touch, which he knew so well, and now dreaded more than anything else, but the relief it brought was too strong.

And Fenton knew it.

“What have they done to you, my darling?” he said sweetly, as he raised Mycroft’s hands to place a kiss on them. Mycroft was too weak to protest, could only groan in response. “I know, I know. Simply awful.”

Mycroft reached into the magic that was used to heal his wounds and drew power from it, deep down into his core, where he hid it behind his pain. His wounds opened again in response, and Fenton frowned, redoubling his efforts. After a few minutes, Mycroft felt recovered enough to speak, at least.

“Get your hands off me, you bastard,” he croaked, his voice abused beyond recognition. “I want nothing to--”

He was cut off by a coughing attack, which wrecked his entire body, making him taste blood in his mouth. Fenton immediately reached behind him and produced a small vial, filled with a curious, green liquid.

“Here, have this for your throat,” he said and held Mycroft’s mouth open. Mycroft couldn’t do anything but swallow, lest he’d be suffocated by the liquid. It burned down his throat, but left invigorated flesh in its wake.

“I don’t care if you’re the carrot after the stick. Leave,” Mycroft said. “Leave and never return.”

“What have they done to you in that other place? We used to get along so well. I particularly enjoyed you on your knees. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that. You were always so eager. What happened to that Mycroft?”

“He’s gone,” Mycroft replied. “I left him in the burning wreckage of my house. If you want him so badly, I suggest you follow him into the afterlife.”

“My, but what a fighter you’ve become. I’m almost proud,” Fenton said and leaned down to press a kiss on Mycroft’s forehead. Mycroft recoiled out of disgust, but his head was held steady with two strong hands, which reeked of magic energy. “You don’t know it yet, but I will have my Mycroft back.”

Mycroft glared at the man, who stared at him with dark eyes, his blonde hair falling around his face. A whole range of conflicted feelings bubbled up in his chest, most of all that damned reflex that was basically built into him by now, because he had only ever seen Fenton for one thing, all these years. He swallowed and consciously pushed any feelings of arousal deep, deep down.

“How adorable. Don’t worry… I’ll be back.”

Fenton smiled at him and leaned forward to lick across Mycroft’s lips.

“Still as delicious as I remember you.”

Mycroft couldn’t move as he was lowered back down into the pillow, and as soon as Fenton had left the cage, he felt it work its magic again and his consciousness slowly faded away.

\--

The fifth time, he woke with a start. The first thing he realised was that his muscles had gotten used to the ill treatment and felt less sore. The repeatedly cast mending spell - especially with Fenton’s magic - had worked. There was no one in the room with him. Mycroft sat up, his bones creaking. He felt like a whole bunch of horses had run over his body, but he could actually move it. If he could only find the right point to deactivate the cage…

Just then the door opened and Sir Richard entered the room. They exchanged a cautious glance with narrowed eyes.

“How long?” Mycroft asked.

“Almost a week,” Sir Richard replied. “We’ve siphoned more magic from you in a day than from most of the wilds in a week. And it’s incredibly delicious.”

He walked over to the large vessel and dipped his finger into the blue liquid, then licked the drops off it with a grin. Mycroft felt more than disgusted. “Why not suck it directly from my veins, you blasted vampire?”

“How crude. There’s really no need for that.”

Mycroft growled and stood up to face the man, who was still smirking.

“Look, Mycroft, the matter is simple. You could’ve avoided all of this by simply handing over Gregory Lestrade to us. We would’ve disposed of him, the murder would’ve been solved, and everyone could’ve continued just as happily as they were.”

“Nothing would’ve been solved,” Mycroft spat. “Greg isn’t the murderer. You are!”

“Correct, my dear man. Not that it does you any good.”

“How did you know about Greg?”

“First name basis, are we? Interesting.”

Mycroft shook his head. “How did you know about Greg?” he repeated.

“We intercepted a man, who had met with Dr. Said. He carried with him a vial of a herbal serum, which was supposedly used to suppress wild energy, thereby masking the wild mages from us. The good doctor had helped develop it… with Diogenes Club resources, no less. This simply couldn’t happen. The man told us all about it, but we couldn’t let it rest there. He didn’t know anything detailed about the Irregulars themselves, but he knew the man who had saved him from us. And that man’s name was Gregory Nicholas Lestrade. A short investigation into the inspector showed a very obvious pattern. He was responsible for us losing so many wilds. That also couldn’t happen.”

“You confronted Dr. Said, showed him the vial. He crushed it in his hand to get rid of it, and then you attacked. Directly after you froze the room. You needed a scapegoat, and Greg was perfect. Two birds with one stone. You copied his pattern… applied it for me to find.”

“Exactly. Clever boy.”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “There were so many signs that I just didn’t see.”

“Entirely intended. What wasn’t intended was that you went off with your new friend Greg and joined the Irregulars. Which brings me to the next order of business. You will tell us what you know about them. Names, locations, plans,” Sir Richard said and laid a hand on the cage. It flared up in a bright blue and Mycroft felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest.

“Go to hell,” he said with a cough.

“Are you sure?” Sir Richard asked and let another shock run through Mycroft’s system.

“Never been so sure of anything in my life,” Mycroft whispered.

“Pity. I hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to this, but I will. We know of the location of your brother and his family. They are not nearly as well hidden as they would like to think. There are men around their house. I need only say the word and they will all be killed. Now talk.”

Mycroft almost forgot how to breathe. Then the wall behind Sir Richard exploded and a rain of stones and wood rained down on him, on the cage, and on Mycroft. Mycroft fell to the floor out of reflex, his partially healed wounds screaming, his head swimming. He was barely able to keep conscious. Then he heard a woman’s voice, clear above all.

“This is for my family,” she screamed, and there was a flash of white light so bright, Mycroft thought he had gone blind. He went down to the ground, eyes covered, groaning in pain. He heard Sir Richard curse and groan and curse some more.

And then he heard the most beautiful thing in his entire life.

“Mycroft!” Greg’s voice rang out over the commotion, a balm to his soul. With relief in his heart, Mycroft let go one more time and slipped away into nothingness.


	20. Chapter 20

Greg watched Sherlock practically rip through the cage above Mycroft’s bed, the iron bending to his will, as it creaked and twisted itself apart. Sherlock was angry, but not as angry as Greg himself. Still, as he fell to his knees next to Mycroft’s body, which was lying on the floor next to the bed, all of his anger dissipated to leave only desperate love. He reached out to touch Mycroft’s skin, which was so pale, it was almost green. It looked like transparent paper, like a thing that would break if you breathed at it. Still, he put his hand on Mycroft’s face, which was incredibly cold.

With his new powers, he gently lifted Mycroft’s body into the air, but not on the bed, as he didn’t know if they could stay here for long. The first assault had been successful, but the Diogenes would retaliate with force, he was sure. They didn’t have long until agents from the city would arrive. He hugged Mycroft close to his chest, like he was carrying him, pushing his body cautiously along through the air. Then his eyes fell on the vessel, brimming with magic energy.

“Do you think…?” he asked Sherlock, and the other mage nodded.

“Yes, that’s his. It might be wise to return it at least partially. He will need magic to heal.”

Greg approached the glowing liquid, wondering how to return it to Mycroft, when he felt a curious tingle as he inhaled the fumes. Immediately he brought Mycroft’s head above the large bowl, so he would breathe in the magic that evaporated into the air. As Mycroft’s eyes popped open suddenly, and he drew in a large breath, Greg almost fell over. His lover was disorientated at first, but he quickly found his bearings. He turned towards Greg and lifted his arms, so that both of them fell into an intimate embrace.

“You were supposed to forget me,” Mycroft breathed, pressing his face to Greg’s skin. “You were supposed to go on with your life.”

“I could never forget you, you bastard,” Greg said with tears in his eyes. “I love you.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched as he dug his fingers into Greg’s back. “I love you,” he whispered.

“You can have your touching reunion later,” Sherlock said from the side, but his voice didn’t carry any malice. “We need to leave. The surprise will only hold them back so long.”

\--

Mycroft glanced over Greg’s shoulder at his brother, but then his gaze fell on Sir Richard, who was lying partially under the rubble, where the wall had collapsed. He was nailed to the floor by shards of what looked like beams of light given physical form. He was unconscious, but… not dead yet. Mycroft turned back towards the vessel, which contained his very own energy and put both hands into the glowing liquid. He hummed the frequency, to which it was attuned, feeling Greg’s own energy react next to him. With a conscious effort he forced the energy back into his body, soaking up the distilled raw magic. It flowed through his body, filling him with heat, the rush dizzying, but welcome. His body embraced the magic, the strength, as it settled into his bones.

“Are you… alright?” Greg asked with worry in his voice.

Mycroft turned to him, feeling his eyes glow, his very skin light up with the assimilated magic. “I haven’t felt so good in a long time.”

His body whipped itself back into shape, wounds closing up, a pleasant cool air flowing over his skin. He felt himself buzzing, his fingers crackling with energy. What lay in front of him was magic worth a week - more than he had ever stored at one time before, but he was determined to absorb it all… because he knew he would need it.

Then Irene burst back into the room, breathless, staring at the scene, a slight smile on her face as she saw Mycroft alive and well. “Reinforcements will be arriving shortly. We need to get out of here.”

“What about the wilds?” Sherlock asked.

“We’ve carried all we could find out here. But there isn’t much time.”

“If there’s nothing of worth left in here, I will raze the building,” Mycroft growled. “Everyone will need to get away. Far away.”

The three others looked at him with eyes wide and Greg put a hand on his arm.

“You can’t. Not with your body in this shape… You were on the floor mere minutes ago,” he said with pleading eyes. “Let us handle this.”

A red fog was rolling off Mycroft’s body, slowly covering the floor, just as he inhaled deeply to breathe in the last blue fumes. His whole body was glowing in a red light, and even his vision had turned crimson. He looked at Greg, who stared at him with nervous concern and gave him a smile.

“I will be fine. I need to do this”

“But--”

“Trust me. I know what I can do.”

“Greg,” Sherlock said. “We need to leave.”

“Not before I end this disgraceful man’s life for good,” Irene hissed. 

Mycroft saw her leaning over Sir Richard’s motionless body. As she clutched the amulet on her chest, he realised that she used it to store magic for herself, as white’s bodies were unable to retain much for themselves. She brought her hand down on his head, another white flash lighting up the room. He was almost sad to know that Sir Richard didn’t see his end coming, didn’t see the wrath on Irene’s face. There was blood everywhere, a lot of it covering Irene’s clothes. She raised her head high and exchanged a glance with Sherlock. With a nod, they both walked towards the exit.

“Greg, go with them. I’ll give you two minutes at most.”

“I won’t leave you alone in here.”

“I can’t let go if I know you’re near me,” Mycroft said. “Please.”

Greg sighed and stepped up to him, and they shared a kiss, which crackled with electricity. Mycroft felt both of them connect, without even any conscious effort to synchronise their energies. Greg’s love settled deep inside his chest, and by the look on his face, the other could feel it too.

“Alright. I trust you. You come right back to me. No breaking your promise this time.”

“Never again,” Mycroft whispered, and then the others were gone.

There was a short bit of shouting, but then the building around him grew eerily quiet. Mycroft breathed in deeply. He felt the energy flow through him, filling him with the power he had so desperately missed. Never in his life had he dipped completely into the vast stores of energy his body could hold. Never had he let go with pure destruction in mind. Part of him felt exhilarated by the fact that he not only had this chance now, but would also get rid of this stain on the country in the process.

With another deep breath, red ribbons sprouted from his back, flowing around him, his pattern blooming again, enveloping him like an old friend. Mycroft rose a few inches off the floor and let himself be carried by fog and threads along the deserted corridor, looking from the outside like an avenging angel, flying on wings of blood. He was barely aware of the shouts that emerged when he came into view of the few remaining guards saw him and stumbled over backwards to get out of his way.

Mycroft had soon reached the flat roof of the building, and could see down into the forest, where the Diogenes men were still fighting with… what seemed like a whole army of mages. He quickly took in the scene and with a start he realised that most of the lucid Irregulars were keeping in pairs of two, who… oh God. They couldn’t have done that so quickly? But now wasn’t the time to contemplate, now was the time for action.

He reached out and formed bolts of crimson energy around him, which flew like lightning strikes from the sky and impaled the Diogenes agents with deadly precision. They dropped like flies at his feet. Mycroft derived absolutely no pleasure from the act, but he was glad that the Irregulars took the opportunity to flee. Only a few saw him, standing on the edge of the roof, and he didn’t know if it was fear on their faces. But then the building was clear and his work could begin.

\--

Greg saw the man, who was pursuing them, fall to the ground. He was pierced by a long, crimson needle, which had appeared out of nowhere. There was no doubt about where it had come from.

“Get away! Faster!” he shouted, climbing into the carriages that held the unconscious wild mages. “Now!”

As they cleared the forest, he saw a red fog rolling along the ground behind him, but not further than the tree line. Then there was a loud noise, which sounded like stone grinding against stone, and then the very ground started shaking. Everyone around him looked back, but the trees concealed what was actually happening. Then he saw something flying out of the crowns, gleaming red in the falling light of the day, shining against the darkening sky, and he realised that it was Mycroft, rising over the ruins like a vengeful spirit.

He followed him with his eyes, flying above them into the direction of London, and with a start, which soon settled as a heavy, cold lump of fear in his chest, he realised that the horizon was full of lights in various colours, speeding towards them.

The Diogenes Club had arrived.


	21. Chapter 21

Greg saw the carriages around him stop. There were five of them, loaded with unconscious, defenseless people. They had about fifty mages with them, two thirds of them newly minted lucids. This was going to be tough. Incredibly tough. How many men and women did the Diogenes send out? They had to assume it was all of them. All they had on hand that night. Their most precious facility had been compromised. If they realised it was completely destroyed, they would be even more angry than they were now - if that was even possible.

He saw Nihal shout for everyone to bring the carriages together. They would present a more focused target this way, but it would also be easier to defend them. Sherlock gave the orders to have the people crammed into just three of the narrow vehicles. They had to be stacked, but it was still better than to have them die.

“Two of you need to be a decoy. I need two volunteers to drive these away in opposite directions,” he shouted and immediately several people raised their hands. He decided on one man and one woman, who made their way immediately. “The rest of you, raise the shield like I showed you. We know the spells they will most probably use, and this should be the most effective defense.”

Sherlock looked up into the sky, and Greg knew what he was searching for. He could see Mycroft shining like a bright, red star against the darkening night. The light was falling quickly, but not fast enough to hide them effectively. Not that it would’ve done them any good. All mages in the Diogenes were trained to sniff out magic energy. None of them were as good as Mycroft, but they didn’t need to be.

“We can’t let him go in alone,” Greg said, as he reached Sherlock’s and Irene’s side. “He can’t do this alone.”

“Do you know of any mage, who could match his speed and ferocity? Do you know of any who could even levitate that long without draining all of their magic reserves within minutes?” Sherlock asked. “As much as it pains me, we have work to do here. On the ground.”

Greg balled his hands to fists. He knew Sherlock was right. The barrier went up around the group, cast by several mages at once, shimmering violet in the night. Their position was very obvious right now, but they had no choice. The carriages that went away flared up and he saw the lights on the horizon split up. They came closer, lighting up the night, their magic patterns proudly on display as a warning. That was the style of the Diogenes, displaying their power as a threat.

As fast as they were moving, it was only a matter of minutes until they would clash. Greg swallowed down his fear and concentrated on the spells that Mycroft had shown him. Mycroft. That maddening, amazing man, who was slipping through his fingers time and time again. He would fight today and he would win, so they could finally put all of this madness behind them.

Just as he felt everyone around him ready themselves, the sky lit up with a bright, red light. For a moment, it felt like the setting sun was blanketing everything with its rays, but then they saw that it was something different entirely. Someone different. Mycroft.

\--

The magic ran through Mycroft’s veins like liquid fire. The feeling as he had razed the building had been beyond compare - as if he had erased part of his past. As if he had gotten rid of a large part of his debt. The thought of Sir Richard lying dead in the ruins was bittersweet. On one hand, the knowledge that this man would never breathe again was a huge relief, on the other he would’ve liked to make the man face the punishment for his crimes. Killing someone like this was letting them off easy.

He saw the vehicles beneath him stop, saw the distraction. A clever move. As the shield went up, he breathed a sigh of relief. They had put his information into use. Right. Now to formulate his own attack. He needed to take as much heat as he could off the people on the ground.

Mycroft decided on an angle. He was powerful, but they were too. It was never wise to underestimate an enemy. He counted at least 300 people, racing through the fields, either on horseback or propelled by their own magic. They were the elite force of the Diogenes Club. But maybe they had forgotten who had taught them their spells. Who had devised their tactics.

With a red flash, Mycroft let his pattern flare up like a beacon that illuminated the night sky. He could’ve attacked silently, but the more attention he pulled away from the people on the ground, the better. If the attack force was unfocused, they were more vulnerable. Several stopped in their tracks, staring up into the sky. Their light wavered. Mycroft was feared even within their own ranks, even though he had never shown his full power.

Tonight he would show them what the bloodhound was capable of.

With a hum, he spread the threads as if they were wings and descended like a falcon to capture his prey. Ahead went bolts of crimson, piercing everyone, who was foolish enough not to raise at least a basic magic shield. Mycroft couldn’t expend all his magic now - the bolts were weak, designed to pick off the unlucky, decimate the numbers. He was aiming to achieve a very specific effect, and that was fear. It seemed to be working. As dozens of them fell because of their carelessness, as horses collapsed and blocked pathways, many of the mages lost their single-minded focus. They did not panic. But now they were paying attention.

Mycroft could easily sense the concentrated magic energy that preceded a spell, thrown in retaliation. His eyes flickered as he analysed the battlefield below him, dodging the magic missiles, the lightning, the storm that was hurled into his path. As some mages started to cast, many others fell into step. Spells started hitting Mycroft’s own armour, as he flew low along the ground at great speed, leaving a red mist where he went. Before anyone could catch up to his plan, he rose again to great height and let magic fire fall beneath him. The mist caught the spark immediately and lit up the night, making the mages caught in it scream for their life.

He turned away to face the spell barrier again, which the new lucids had woven. He could see it in the way it was constructed - correctly, but flimsy. With no feeling for the natural flow of magic. They had actually managed to apply his frequency theory and rallied these people to break him free. With the Diogenes mages on fire, he resolved to fly back to the others, where he could be of help. But then Mycroft suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest. The fire had been a good tactic, but it was not his element. Using it always came with a cost. Ice came naturally, but fire was more effective in such an environment.

As he maneuvered towards the defenseless wilds, he felt his body catching up. It was still battered, barely healed. No. Not now. His light faded rapidly as he went, praying that no one would see his power diminish… the energy, which had been forced into it leaving his body again. He had overdone it. His only hope was that the mages would be too occupied with being on fire to--

A bolt of light hit his leg, leaving an ugly wound, cutting right through the icy barrier that he had tried to maintain. Encouraged by their obvious success, the mage on the ground hurled another spell at him. Mycroft could barely dodge. Then he saw a whole rain of light coming down on him. It hit him with considerable force, punching the air out of his lungs, cutting open his skin.

Soon he was falling, like a star from the sky.

\--

“Mycroft!” Greg screamed, as he saw the mage being hit. “Mycroft! No!”

He ran up the barrier, which didn’t only hold back magic, but also physical attacks. The magic buzzed under his fingertips as he knocked on the wall, shouting, crying for Mycroft, who had disappeared from view completely.

“Greg, get back!” he heard Nihal order him.

“Open the barrier!” Greg shouted back. “I need to get to Mycroft!”

“We can’t do that!” Sherlock responded loudly, and just as he said it, a lightning strike hit the bubble above their heads, blinding everyone for a few seconds, but the barrier held. “These people will die!”

“Mycroft will die!” Greg screamed, his eyes full of tears. “Let me out!”

“Impossible.”

Greg let out a furious howl and launched himself against the violet barrier. His body started glowing in a silver light, so bright it was almost white. He screamed as he pushed with his hands against the magic, which was being held in place by at least twenty mages. As he pushed his fingers through it, they burned like fire, but he didn’t care. He summoned all his magic and all his love, and with an inhuman effort he forced his body through the barrier at last, falling to the ground on the other side. His clothes were burned, his skin was raw. But he had done it.

“Greg!” he heard Nihal scream behind him, but the only thing he could see was a group of Diogenes mages charging towards him. Then he saw a crimson light flicker up to his right, hidden in the wheat field. There were only five men and women between him and Mycroft.

With a wrath that he didn’t know he was capable of, he charged at them in turn, his body a dagger of silver light.


	22. Chapter 22

Everything in his body hurt. The desperately conjured shield had only helped so much in cushioning the impact. At least he wasn’t dead. Mycroft coughed heavily and moved his arms through the dirt. If he could only… 

“Aahh…”

He could barely suppress his groans as he moved his right leg. Broken. At least twice. As he concentrated on it, he could feel it was wet, bleeding. He couldn’t get away. Not anymore. And everyone had seen where he fell. He had seconds. With a scream of pain, he wrapped himself in icy cold, blanketing his leg and felt it grow numb. It was merely a temporary solution. This was the end, he could feel it. He had overestimated the capabilities of his body, which had been hurt and abused for a whole week, magic siphoned out of it forcefully. He had overloaded it, and now he was paying the price. The power had wrapped him in a sense of false security. Blinded by revenge. He should’ve gone with Greg, helped the defense. Paced himself. Now it was too late.

Out of nowhere, he saw a bolt of green light racing towards him. With everything in him, Mycroft cast an icy shield, which burst on impact, showering him with the debris. How many more could he deflect. One? Two? His breath had run out. The ground around him was wet with blood… No. He gnashed his teeth. He had promised he’d return to Greg. 

He had promised.

Mycroft dug his fingers into the ground, feeling for the energy that ran through the earth. The Diogenes usually placed their buildings on ley lines, and they were still close, so… yes! It was faint, but it was there. With his right hand in the ground, reaching out for that spark, he deflected another green bolt with his left. Icy fog filled the small impact crater he had produced upon his landing. Then he felt his fingertips tingling. The energy was flowing to him. But it was too slow. Too little. It would never--

White light lit up his surroundings in what first seemed like a flash of lightning, but it didn’t go away. He heard someone scream, a flash of green, then there was silence. The light grew so bright he had to place his hand in front of his eyes, ready to cast another shield, but the attack never came. Instead the night returned and he felt a hand on his own. Felt the frequency, that instant connection.

“Greg…” he breathed. “How…?”

“Thought you’d need some help to keep your promise.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Mhm…” Greg hummed. “Look who’s talking.”

Mycroft shook his head. “How’s the situation?”

 

“The barrier is holding, but under heavy attack. Your intervention decimated probably about two thirds of their people, but they aren’t deterred.”

“Two thirds…” Mycroft said and coughed. The fact that he had taken so many lives in just a few minutes hit him curiously hard. Greg could see it in his eyes, he was sure of it, as he was smiling at him sadly. “Right. So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

“That will be difficult, as my leg is definitely broken.”

“It is what?” Greg shouted, and just then another magic attack rained down on them like a meteor shower. 

Mycroft instinctively reached for Greg’s hand, and through their connection drained a small part of his energy to uphold a shield. The sparks fizzled out on the barrier, which looked like a thin sheet of ice above them. But Mycroft couldn’t focus on that. His brain was spinning, assimilating the new possibilities. Silver. Silver magic storages were… basically endless. They were certainly enough for tonight. Only Greg couldn’t use them like he could. But there was a way around that.

“Trust me?” he asked Greg, just as a lightning strike hit the shield, throwing hard shadows on their features for a fraction of a second.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I need your energy to help the others. Through our connection I can channel it… use it. I could save everyone…”

Greg gasped. “But your body. It’s already--”

“Greg. Yes or No?”

“Yes. Always yes.”

Mycroft drew the other man closer for a brief kiss, then wrapped his free arm around him. “You need to stay close to me. Very close. Can you do that?”

Greg nodded, his eyes full of fear, but also full of wonder. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, who started humming the tone that would make both of them connect. He fell into the same notes, and around their bodies, crimson and silver fog started to swirl into each other. Greg felt a curious pull, but he didn’t resist it, just opened himself up to Mycroft, who received the magic with a sigh. They started to rise into the air, clinging to each other. He felt Mycroft’s leg against his, hanging slack, felt the blood seeping into his own clothes. The other’s body was vibrating with the strain of channeling the energy, but Mycroft smiled at him, as if to say that everything was okay.

Repeated attacks hit them from the air, and several people charged at them with guns and swords, but every effort was stopped by a barrier, thin like a bubble of soap. It should be impossible that these concentrated attacks were thwarted by such a flimsy looking shield, but Greg saw both crimson and silver pattern move across its surface, and he instinctively knew that it would hold.

“Ready?” Mycroft said as they had reached a place over the violet barrier, which was still protecting the unconscious wilds.

“Ready,” Greg replied and brought his hand into Mycroft’s.

An explosion of light and sound preceded the red threads, which were spreading like attacking snakes into every direction, leaving silver light in their path. They wormed their way through the air, finding their targets without fail. Mage after mage of the Diogenes fell, their hearts pierced by Mycroft’s extended pattern.

Then the horizon lit up with orange light, as if it was answering, looking like the rising sun had come back early to celebrate their victory. Mycroft flinched, but Greg shook his head, squeezed his hand.

“They’re on our side, my love. All of them. John will be furious to know he’s missed the battle.”

“John?” Mycroft asked in confusion, just as the threads dissolved, leaving bodies to fall to the floor. “Who--”

“That are the soldiers of the Watson’s. They’re the house that saved me when I was turning out to be a wild. Their only son, John, is a wild as well. They’ve always supported the Irregulars. Pressured the Yard into keeping me on. I knew they would come to support us… though they could’ve appeared a tad earlier.”

“There are still a few stragglers,” Mycroft said as a flame hit their shield, thrown in an act of clear desperation. “This John will have his battle yet. As for me… I think I may allow myself to pass out now.”

“I’ve got you,” Greg whispered and drew Mycroft properly into his arms, who managed one last smile before he fell unconscious once again… only for the first time he knew he would be at peace when he woke up.


	23. Chapter 23

Greg stretched his legs and leaned back in the comfortable armchair. With a flick of his wrists and a few tones, he let the logs in the fireplace flare up. It was early March, but the nights were still cold. Somehow it was still new to him how much easier life was with access to magic. It had only been a little over half a year since he’d made the change from wild to lucid, but since then he’d soaked up every spell Mycroft, and others, were willing to teach him.

Since the Diogenes had been purged from the city, both of them had devoted their life to improving the situation of the wilds in any way possible. Together with the Watsons, the Irregulars had come forward at last, now a force for good in this world, supported even by the Crown. Their first order of business had been to teach the frequency matching theory. But now they had shifted to constructing early detection relics, which children could wear, to determine if wild energy was already building up in them, preventing the dreaded bursts. In the process of dismantling the Diogenes, they had learned that the leadership had known of and actively suppressed similar efforts in the past, which had lead to so many unnecessary deaths. Now children could be matched early, bringing them on a gentle path to being lucid, that integrated with their growth. Grown wilds went through much a similar transition as Greg had - a bit more painful, but worth it. But there was one thing no one had expected at all…

As the detection relics were handled by adults without magic, they would always react without fault. There wasn’t a single person without at least some energy signature, a beginning of a pattern. It turned out that the world had always been so different from what everyone had thought… because the ninety percent of people thought void of magic, were all white mages. Everyone had the ability within them, only they couldn’t store magic at all, so they never burst and so never presented as wild. The discovery had implications so vast, the world was still reeling, weeks after the news had broken. Already a new industry had sprung up, selling energy storing relics to whites, so they could enjoy the comforts of supporting magic in their life.

Greg took a sip of his brandy as he heard the front door open and close. Mycroft was home, then. It still filled him with a deep sense of joy to think of it this way. Both of them in their home. The little townhouse that they had bought together, furnished together… lived in together for over two months now. He placed the glass on a side table and got up to welcome his love home. But when he turned into the corridor, he could only see Mycroft from behind, still in his coat, staring at some point on the wall. Greg frowned.

“Welcome home,” he said.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied, his voice quiet and timid, shoulders tense.

“Are you alright?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I don’t think so…”

“Darling, what--”

As Greg stepped forward and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, the man jumped with a hiss. As he turned and their eyes met, Greg could see that Mycroft’s were full of tears. His face was ashen, cold sweat on his skin. Greg’s heart sunk immediately, contracting in fear.

“Come into the sitting room,” he managed to say and Mycroft just nodded, followed him timidly. 

Whatever had happened, he would not discuss it behind the front door. He lead Mycroft to the divan, but the other refused to sit, moving with short, pained steps. He looked briefly to the floor, then back to Greg, sighing deeply.

“Did you hear about the attack on Pall Mall this morning?” Mycroft asked.

“The carriage that was assaulted… it went up in flames. That was you?”

“Yes. Me and my team of researchers. I got everyone out in time… but made the mistake of pursuing the attacker, as our guard was unconscious. She was one of… them.“

Greg groaned. “The True Diogenes?”

“Precisely. She had it out for me. Had probably wanted to draw me out. I was attacked again… with vitriol. I could’ve defended against the normal liquid, but it was imbued with a spell and ate through my defenses. Luckily my backup arrived at that moment and took them in, but…”

“Please tell me they treated you…” Greg breathed, even though he highly doubted it, they way Mycroft moved. “Please, love…”

“Frankly… they lack the skills. I have to do it myself… The spell is woven deep into the liquid, and now into my flesh.”

Greg swallowed down his fear. “Show me.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, still reluctant. He turned his back to Greg and took a deep breath. His shoulder shook, and Greg couldn’t tell if it was pain or fear. What was he afraid of? Was it this bad?

“You‘ll have to help me.”

“Of course,” Greg replied readily.

Greg then pulled off Mycroft’s coat - not without difficulty - to reveal the waistcoat, which was damp on the back. The white shirt underneath was stained with blood over the shoulders and down the back. Greg’s breathing almost stopped as Mycroft worked on the waistcoat buttons, and then this garment too was discarded on the floor. The shirt itself was still glistening wet with blood, clinging to Mycroft‘s skin. With a hiss and a curse, that cloth too was removed, revealing the actual wound.

Mycroft’s skin was raw and blistering over his shoulders, down his neck and over the shoulder blades, like a fresh burn wound. It was bleeding still, glowing green even without any filter. Greg almost didn’t dare touch his lover’s body, but then put a hand on Mycroft’s arm, where the skin was unblemished. It was cold to the touch.

“They let you go like this?” Greg asked after everything had sunken in.

“I had to promise to treat myself.”

“And you will. This is… how can you be talking to me right now? This looks…”

“Painful, yes. It’s taking a lot of concentration to talk.”

Greg put his free hand over his mouth. “Painful probably doesn’t even describe it. We’re fixing this. Now.”

Mycroft looked back at him, his face unreadable, then he shook his head. “It’ll go away when the spell fades. A few days at most.”

“You can not be serious.”

“I can’t reach it on my--”

“I’ll do it. Tell me how.”

“Greg…” Mycroft said, distressed, pulling away. “You don’t need--”

“What don’t I need to? Treat this horrible wound? Like hell I don’t need to!” Greg shouted. “We’re doing this. Now. Lie down.”

“No.”

Greg consciously pushed away his anger and looked into Mycroft’s face. This wasn’t a time to fight. There had to be a reason Mycroft reacted like this. The man looked scared. More scared of Greg than of the damage he had received. Why hadn’t he stayed with the people, who could’ve treated him? Greg was sure that Mycroft was lying. They were probably more than capable… 

“Darling, I don’t want to fight over this. You’re in pain. Let me help.”

“I can’t…”

“Fine. Then tell me why.”

As Mycroft tried to get his breathing under control, Greg could see rivulets of blood running down his chest, fresh and copious. He longed to reach out, but instinctively felt that it was the wrong reaction at the time. As well as he’d gotten to know Mycroft during those last months, there were always unknown depths to his characters that he had to make an effort to understand. He always made sure to give Mycroft the room he needed, coaxing out the sweet and vulnerable man that he had fallen in love with. But now… now Greg was actually scared himself.

“I… I was given this… I need to… I can’t…” Mycroft started to explain, slow, stuttering. His gaze was directed towards the floor, unable to look Greg in the eye. Tears were once again running down his cheeks, dropping to the floor, mingling with the blood. “Oh… please, please don’t be angry with me… I…”

Greg swallowed back his own tears, standing stoically, his heart close to bursting. His voice was broken when he talked. “I won’t be angry. I promise.”

\--

Mycroft sobbed, his body shaking, face contorting in pain. He clenched his hands to fists, trying to force back his tears by sheer willpower, but he was too weak to achieve it. He felt dirty, ashamed. He could’ve just let Greg treat the wounds, but somewhere in his heart, he was unable to take the step.

A voice rang in his head. ‘Traitor!’ they had shouted as the hurled the vitriol. ‘You took everything from us!’ they had shouted as their fists had rained down.

He couldn’t tell Greg, could he? Would he walk away? Away from such a pile of misery, away from this pathetic excuse of a human being? But he needed to tell him at some point. It had gotten worse. So much worse over the last weeks.

Mycroft fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer, the impact rushing through his abused body like a shock, making him cry out. Greg was at his side in an instant, put both hands on his face to hold it up. As their foreheads touched, Mycroft couldn’t deny his petty urges any longer and wrapped his bloodied arms around Greg’s body, staining the man with his filth.

“I need it,” he whispered into the fabric of Greg’s shirt, a secret admission only for his lover’s ears. “I need the pain. It’s the only way I can… live.”

He felt Greg tense in his arms, then his hands on his hips… fingers digging into his flesh. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I could bear it, but I can’t. Not any longer. Every wild, who comes in to help us test the new relics, turns to me with such admiration and hope. But I can’t help but look at them in horror. And then I wonder. Who was it? Someone you knew? Someone you loved? Who did I make the Diogenes kill? Every smile directed at me is like a dagger. Why are they smiling? I’ve committed such atrocities… I… don’t deserve…”

Mycroft descended into another sobbing fit, making him unable to speak. Greg held him as tightly as he could, but didn’t say anything. Mycroft didn’t dare look at his face. What if it was full of rightful disgust? He could only hold on and keep talking.

“Every day I’m confronted with my crimes, and with every instance, the pain in my chest grows. It strangles me from the inside. I can’t live with who I was. I abhor myself. The pain… it helps.”

“The pain…?” Greg barely manages to ask.

“Physical pain is more immediate than emotional. It overwrites the guilt… for a while.”

“But you… I couldn’t see…”

“Magic has ways to hurt without leaving scars,” Mycroft said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Then the most extraordinary thing happened. He felt Greg’s tears on his skin, running hot across his shoulder, burning their way down his back. He hissed in pain, muscles contracting involuntarily.

“Darling…” he heard Greg breath against his skin, sounding more broken than he had ever heard him. “You’re not saying that…”

“Leave me be. I deserve the pain. I’ve been a traitor to mankind, wilds and lucids alike. I’ve betrayed both sides. So many lives weigh on my soul… It’s only right that I should bleed for them.”

“Why didn’t I see…” Greg whispered. “How long…?”

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine.”

Greg took a deep breath, and Mycroft felt the hands on his hips tighten. He braced himself. Greg would leave him. He knew it. There was no way--

“You’re such a bastard,” Greg said between clenched teeth. “Carrying this all with you without telling me. Such an incredible bastard. And now you will listen to me without talking back, is that clear?”

Mycroft could only nod, tears already forming in his eyes.

“I love you. Never forget that. I trust you with my life, and you can trust me with yours. I want to know everything that troubles you, no matter what it is. No. Matter. What,” Greg said and took a steadying breath. “You are an incredible human being. The best I have ever met. This revolution is your gift to the world. Society is changing for the better. The world is changing for the better. People are getting help. They are getting help and their lives are improving by the day.”

Mycroft could only listen, his body frozen.

“You are someone, who, upon realising the reality of his actions, discarded his old life without looking back, striving for justice and truth. You saved me. You handed your life over to save your brother’s family. Almost destroyed your body to protect the Irregulars on the battlefield. You’ve refined the frequency theory and are the leading researcher on the detection relics. You work yourself to the bone for others. You give and give and give and never… never once expect anything back in return. You’ve given me a new life… a home…” Greg’s eyes filled with tears and his voice was heavy as he talked on. “You’ve given me your love, all of it, providing me with joy every day, despite this sorrow sitting in your chest. But now it’s done. It’s over. You’re done giving. It’s time to receive. We’re mending your wound and then we’re leaving.”

Mycroft looked up in shock, their eyes finally meeting. Where he had expected Greg to look at him in disgust, he could only see sadness and love. So much love. Directed at him… His heart hurt so fiercely he almost forgot to breathe.

“Leaving?”

“Go away from here. That wasn’t the first attack on your life. I’m not letting that happen again. Everything here reminds you of your past… you’ve been working without pause for the last half year. You can’t go on like this.”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. “My debt is too large to leave.”

“You’ve paid your debt back a thousandfold!” Greg shouted. “The whole fucking world knows it! Even in countries, where the magic elite has ruled over the non-mages, revolution is bringing change! You brought equality to everyone! What more could you want?”

“The frequency discovery was a fluke. Everyone could’ve…”

“No one has. The Diogenes even suppressed the knowledge. But you did! Despite the odds, and at the risk of your own life. If you never lifted another finger, you’ll still be the man, who will go down in history as the one who changed the world. They will be talking about you in history classes for centuries. You are amazing. And I love you. All of you.”

Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, who had wanted to draw back, but as their lips met, was filled with an incredible flood of emotion, as their patterns connected, and the weight of Greg’s love almost physically crushed him. His tears started flowing again, and he clung tighter to Greg, still fearing he could disappear at any moment.

“I love you,” he whispered against Greg’s lips. “It burns. It hurts so much. Please… please help me. I can’t do it alone.”

“Lie down,” Greg said immediately. “I’ll help you. I’ll always help you. But I can’t do that if you don’t lean on me properly. You can trust me, you know?”

“I know…” Mycroft replied, shame in his voice. He did know. But he had made himself forget in the middle of his grief.

He gingerly laid down on his stomach, on the already ruined carpet, head sideways, arms aligned with his torso, as it hurt to raised them over his head. Greg sat down next to him, examining the wound itself, and Mycroft saw the filters run over his eyes.

“Draw the green energy out,” Mycroft instructed him. “Reach into my pattern and help the threads push out the magic.”

“Right.”

Every bit of magic that was removed felt like a shard of jagged glass being dragged out of Mycroft’s body. The bleeding flared up, and he was groaning, writhing on the ground. He was crying from pain, but only in the beginning, because it soon swept over into relief. Relief about the fact that Greg was still here, was still helping him… still as committed as ever, if not more. His eyes closed with a sigh as he felt cold air flow over his back, lessening the pain. Greg worked slowly, but meticulously, whispering endearments and encouragements as he went. Mycroft felt himself drift off, his body giving out under the stress, but the pain didn’t let him, pulling him back into consciousness with every small stab. Finally, after over half an hour, Greg leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“I think I got everything… but the skin is still injured. Will you be able to bear a mending spell?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, blinking away dried tears. “Yes. Without the magic, the injury is only skin-deep… It shouldn’t take long.”

“It will hurt,” Greg said.

“I’m used to pain,” Mycroft replied in a wistful tone.

“Not for much longer…”

Greg put his hands directly on the wounded skin and Mycroft stirred underneath him. Even though the area was almost numb from the cold, it stung him terribly. Greg apologised immediately, but Mycroft simply shook his head and willed him to continue. The mending spell quickly took hold, and as his own flesh twisted itself into form Mycroft breathed heavily, trying to concentrate his own magic at the same point, welcoming the change rather than pushing it out. The relic vitriol had remained in his body for too long, worming itself too deep, and now he was paying the price.

\--

When Greg finally lifted his hands from the newly grown skin, Mycroft had already passed out underneath him. He could see both of their energies flickering over his skin, crimson mixing with silver. He took a deep breath and slowly let Mycroft’s body rise into the air, until he floated about three feet off the ground, his back to the floor. With careful motions, he removed the rest of Mycroft’s clothes and then stroked his body gently, leaving clean skin in his path. Finally he caressed his hair until it flowed again in gentle, fluffy waves.

He drew Mycroft’s naked body into his arms and walked slowly with him towards their shared bedroom. As he watched the unconscious body of his partner, tears formed once again in his eyes, ran down his cheeks and fell onto Mycroft’s face, which he held close to his as he walked. It was almost unthinkable that this beautiful, perfect man carried so much pain inside him. That he was able to work, perform beyond what was expected of him and laugh together with Greg, despite everything that was clouding his soul, was a feat Greg could not believe possible.

Somehow he knew that Mycroft expected him to be angry once he woke up. But Greg wouldn’t be. He would welcome his love with open arms and be his rock to cling to. He already knew that they had to leave the city, at least for a while. Mycroft would never find the strength to go on while he was being confronted with constant reminders of his past. There had been so much going on, they had never stopped. Never reflected. Never looked into themselves. 

Greg had reached the bed and let Mycroft fall gently into the soft bedding, then dragged the blanket over him. He placed a kiss on his forehead, stroked his fingers along Mycroft’s face, then made sure he was tucked in properly. With a flick of his wrist and a few tones, he made sure the mending spell was still working and then turned to leave the room.

They had to get away… and he knew just the thing.

\--

Mycroft woke alone in their bed, his muscles aching. But apart from that, his body felt better than it had any right to. Cautiously he reached behind his back, but his hand only found new, smooth skin. His body was clean, even his hair didn’t cling to his head. He sighed. Greg was getting more proficient by the day. Soon he’d outperform even Mycroft himself, with the right techniques and his endless storage of silver magic. Not that Mycroft minded. He was proud of every step that Greg was taking.

He sat up and looked about the room. The sun was low in the sky, this early in the morning, and cast an orange light through the windows. Mycroft found himself staring at the deep shadows that the ray cast on his blanket. His mind was blank. The dark thoughts of the night before still danced at the edge of his awareness, but he refused to let them in. There would be a time he had to confront them, but that was not now. He could barely brace himself for Greg’s arrival, when there was a slight knock on the door, before it opened.

“Good morning, darling,” Greg said with a smile. “Sleep well?”

Mycroft released a shaky breath. “Better than I have in months. Thank you.”

Greg walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, then leaned in to kiss Mycroft lightly. When they parted, Mycroft reached out and pulled Greg back in, chasing his lips again. Greg smiled against him and moved to press their bodies together, until they sat in a tight embrace. Mycroft’s head ended up on Greg’s shoulder, as he clung to the warm body of his partner, buried his nose in the fabric of his shirt.

“You need to talk to me, my love. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s troubling you. No amount of magic can help me read your mind,” Greg said quietly, while he was stroking Mycroft’s hair. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry with you. You did what you thought was right.”

Mycroft couldn’t stop the tears that flowed from his eyes and soaked into the fabric of Greg’s shirt. A sob ripped through his body as he was held carefully, gentle kisses placed to his head. He attempted to talk, but his voice broke. Greg didn’t seem to mind. With every whispered confession of love and adoration, Mycroft’s heart swelled, until he found the breath to talk again.

“I’m sorry. I swear I will talk to you. I had no one to confide in for all my life… I am not accustomed to share my thoughts.”

“Just tell me. Tell me everything, no matter how small,” Greg said and squeezed Mycroft briefly. “I will never turn you away. And I promise to share my thoughts with you as well.”

Mycroft nodded, feeling suddenly lighter than he had ever felt in his entire life. He drew back slightly and when their eyes met, he saw Greg’s were full of tears as well. The mere sight made his heart ache. He never wanted to see Greg so sad again.

“And promise me you won’t hurt yourself again. I told you I’d protect you from anyone who wants to do you harm, but I can’t protect you from yourself.”

Mycroft nodded again, his voice wavering. “I will try to do my best.”

“I love you, you bastard,” Greg said with a grin and Mycroft broke out into laughter.

“I love you so dearly,” Mycroft replied.

They fell together into the sheets, kissing like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Greg’s hands roamed Mycroft’s body, hot and demanding. Their clothes were gone before they knew it and Mycroft cried out as Greg pressed their bodies together, rubbing himself against him. He took both of them in hand and soon they were rutting against each other, through their combined fingers, mouths never parting, panting, swallowing each other’s breath.

When Greg came, he did so with a curse, and the feeling of him pulsing against Mycroft’s cock pushed the other over the edge soon after. They cuddled up together, after their magic took care of any sticky remnants. Mycroft clung as closely to Greg as was possible, wrapping his threads around both of them, as he felt their patterns entwine. Their combined feelings of contentment wrapped his very soul into a soft blanket.

“We should leave London for a while,” Greg said. “We had a request last week, to go to a conference in Switzerland. Afterwards we’re supposed teach the frequency theory and bring the detection relic blueprints with us. We would be gone for about half a year, traveling around the country. It would put the Crown in a very good position, if we’re to share this knowledge freely.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“What? Just like that?” Greg asked, the surprise obvious in his voice.

“Yes. I trust you. If you think this will be good for me - for us - I will go. Honestly… I’ve long desired to leave this city. I’ve never gone beyond London and its surrounding villages. But… are you comfortable with leaving?”

Greg hugged Mycroft closer and pressed a kiss to his neck. 

“If you’re with me, I’ll go anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading and sticking with me while I worked my way through this universe! I very much hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing, I'd like to point you towards [my second Mycroft Holmes novel](https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1787053296/), which will be released on October 11th 2018.
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments! <3


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